


The Wounds Inside

by make_your_own_world



Series: Supernatural Hunger Games AU [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Death, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Explicit Language, F/M, Homophobic Language, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Major Character Injury, Protective Dean Winchester, Suicide, Violence, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2020-10-05 16:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 76,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20492069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/make_your_own_world/pseuds/make_your_own_world
Summary: The 68th annual Hunger Games are about to begin. Dean Winchester has lived in District 5 his whole life, good at keeping his head down and staying out of too much trouble. He just wants to get through the reaping without losing anyone close to him—it's an easy enough wish when he only cares about his brother and his best friend. When this year's Games throw him into the national spotlight, though, everything is going to change. He's got one ally in the arena, two (or three? He's still not sure about Gabriel) in the Capitol, and quite a few in the Districts. Unfortunately, there's also twenty-two kids in the arena that want to kill him and the leader of an entire country out for his blood. Will Dean be able to survive the Games as his past and present collide? Will he be able to fool the whole country of Haven into believing that he's in love with his best friend? He's walking a tightrope that he's bound to fall off of, and nobody's below to catch him.Slowburn Destiel. Like, REALLY slowburn. Lots of violence (I mean, this is the Hunger Games and Supernatural combined).Updates are every Monday, Eastern Time.





	1. Prologue: Uhtceare

Mary Winchester and John Winchester are both Victors.

Mary won her game three years before John, when she was just fifteen. Most people expected her to die almost immediately—attractive blonde females are often underestimated, it would seem—so most of the other tributes put her out of their minds as they traversed the woodland forest arena that had been designed for them. They hadn’t been expecting her survival skills to be so advanced. Sure, she’d been an unofficial Career—she’s from District 5, but she’s still been training for the Games in case her name was ever called—but there are so many Careers fighting against her that are stronger, bigger, and most importantly, men. Besides, Careers die in the Games as well and really, nobody even knew she’d been training.

No, she was written off, and so Mary went off into the woods while everyone else squabbled over their weapons and already-prepared food. She knew how to make traps for wildlife and how to skin rabbits with crude rocks, so food wasn’t an issue for her. Protecting herself was, again, simple, but less so than food had been.

The thing that had really set her apart from the rest, and was all the more impressive because of the stereotypes about blonde women, was the way she outsmarted everyone in the Games. It didn’t take her long to find poisonous berries called nightlock, and after that she scattered them just enough around the campgrounds of all the other alliances that had formed.

It hadn’t even been hard.

Apart from a few monsters and staged fights that she knew the Gamemakers had set up, she got away scot-free, and her reputation soared as someone you’ll never be able to outsmart.

(Rumors that she wasn’t a natural blonde started as well, mostly by men, to excuse how she was able to outsmart everyone else.)

John Winchester was three years after that, from the same district, when he was eighteen. Terrible luck to be picked on the last year you would have been in the pool, everyone said, but no one really cared. It happens all the time. Better than a twelve-year-old’s name picked out of the bowl.

In the other two Games, people have tried to imitate Mary’s style using fancy tricks such as putting the berries in their allies’ food, but people are so paranoid about their food it rarely works. Well, it sort of works, but not in the way the tributes had been hoping; they’d all been  _ so _ paranoid about their food that some tributes starved themselves to death.

John didn’t even bother with the ‘outsmarting’ technique. He’s smart, sure, but in an ‘average’ way, although that didn’t stop him from playing to his strengths. He was hardly an unofficial Career, but years of repairing the hydroelectric dam made John strong.

John got three kills in the bloodbath as well as a knife, but someone drove a spear into his shoulder and he had to retreat into the woods to regroup. He might not even have won had a group of Careers not chased after him. They found him after three days when he’d patched up his shoulder and built a trap for them—he did learn  _ something _ from the pretty Victor that’s his age, after all—and slit all their throats.

After that was one District 12 female that killed herself when she saw John coming. She was the only one left. She’d been smart like him. Smarter, probably. She’d known when it was time to give up.

It was a good thing John waited as long as he did in the forest. If he hadn’t, the Careers might not have killed the other tributes for him. Lucky for him, they took out all the other competition before practically delivering themselves to him on silver platters. The Game hardly lasted a week.

John and Mary met at a Victor party in the Capitol. They’d seen each other around District 5, for sure, and John’s nearly positive that they went to the same high school, but they’d never really talked.

Mary found John sitting slumped in his chair, attempting to drown himself in alcohol. She’d not judged him. She’d sat right down next to him, two murderers side by side with no intent to kill the other, and they said nothing to each other all night.

For three Victor parties that continued. John drank and Mary sat.

The day after the fourth, John saw Mary wandering around the district with nothing to do, just like him. They’d seen the other and noticed the restlessness that comes with no work to do in both of them (it was like looking into a mirror). Noticed the bottle in John’s hand and the emptiness in Mary’s eyes, and then something had happened and Mary had told John to quit drowning his sorrows, that he was alive and wasn’t that good enough?

Then there was another Games, and John and Mary were selected to mentor the tributes together, which was unusual only because non-Career districts rarely have two Victors of opposite sexes be eligible for mentoring at the same time.

The tributes died.

Horribly.

The boy’s head was bashed in during the bloodbath. The girl was hunted by two Careers for three days before they tired of the game of cat-and-mouse and chased her into a tree. She starved to death, unwilling to take her chances on the ground.

Mary joined John in drinking that night, and something inside them both broke, but it broke together.

They dated—if ‘dated’ is a good enough word for it—for four years before John asked her to marry him and the next morning they woke up to cameras flashing outside their shared house. He hadn’t wanted to think very hard about how the news had already come out when it had only been decided that night at around 3 in the morning, but Mary wanted to think about it. A lot.

Dean Winchester is born on January 24. He’s a beautiful baby boy, very outspoken, very cuddly, and Mary loves to ruffle up his blond curls.

(She also loves to make passive-aggressive remarks about the Capitol inside the ‘safety’ of their childhood home, despite John’s warnings about ears always listening, because how else would the reporters have found out about the engagement?)

Samuel Winchester is born on May 2, four years after his big brother. He’s beautiful too, but his hair is darker and he’s much quieter than Dean. Dean falls in love with him immediately and Mary’s ecstatic about their relationship.

On November 2, when Sam is exactly six months old, Mary goes missing.

She’s found two days later hanging from a rope in the hydroelectric dam. President Naomi declares it a suicide.

John knows it’s bullshit (or maybe he just hopes).


	2. Kenopsia

When Dean wakes up, the bed is cold. He instinctively reaches out for Sam, who must have rolled away from him in the middle of the night, but when his fingers don’t touch the comforting weight of his little brother, Dean sits up with a jolt.

Sam snorts at him from where he’s eating a piece of plain toast. Butter, cinnamon, and honey are all luxuries they can’t afford. Well, they can, but John won’t let them, so the treats are saved only for when Dean gets away with stealing the items from the market.

“What’re you doin’ up?” Dean slurs, peering at him with sleep-blurred eyes. Once he’s sure Sam’s okay, he rolls over onto his stomach and lets out a loud groan, not wanting to be awake so early.

It’s the day of the reaping. Of course Sam is awake; he’s nervous now that he’s old enough to be reaped. Dean doesn’t know why he’s so worried; John’s been training them since Dean turned five. Besides, his odds of getting reaped are infintessimally small; District 5 is one of the largest districts in Haven, and there’s only one slip in there with Sam’s name on it.

“Just woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep,” Sam answers, shrugging his shoulders like it’s nothing, even though Dean’s eyes are closed. They both know it’s not ‘nothing’ like he’s pretending. Hell, even Dean was nervous about his first reaping, but not as nervous as Sam is.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

And now that Dean’s sixteen, with four years of luck under his belt, he’s confident. The chances are stacked in their favor. Besides, Victor’s kids are hardly ever picked; it’s not a rule that’s stated aloud, but it’s never happened before.

No, they’ll be fine.

Dean starts to snore not long after that and Sam smiles at his older brother. If Dean isn’t worried, then Sam shouldn’t be either. Dean knows everything. Dean can protect him. As long as Dean is around, nothing bad is going to happen to Sam.

Sam debates with himself after finishing his toast, for lack of anything better to do. He’d secretly bought a little block of goat cheese from the store two days ago. At first he’d bought it for Dean but now the thought of it sounds really good after that plain breakfast.

Eventually he pulls it out of his pocket and sets it on the table for Dean when he gets up. He’ll never understand why their father, a Victor himself and therefore privy to all sorts of privileges, chooses not to buy good food. He settles for the worst, least tasty foods that he can find, and sometimes he doesn’t even bring enough of it for Dean to eat for days on end. The last time Sam bought something special like that cheese from the store, John got so angry that Dean had to step in. The men had gone outside and gotten into a very loud argument.

Sam can’t help but wonder if his mother were here, would John refuse so many luxuries? Would he be so mad at Dean all the time? Sam knows John loves them. He does. John is just angry so much of the time. Sam’s angry, too, especially when he thinks about how his mother had abandoned him and Dean and their dad. It had been plain selfish of her.

John knows about the cheese that Sam had bought and is now sitting on the table. It had sparked another loud argument and Sam feels bad about it, now that he looks back on it. He’d known that his dad would get mad, known that Dean would step in, and known that he wouldn’t get in trouble. Like he always does. It’s why Sam does so many things that get his dad mad; he knows that he won’t be the one dealing with his anger.

He’s making up for it by giving Dean the cheese. He’d hoped that maybe Dean would take him out today, maybe even to the edge of the town, but his brother got back way after Sam went to sleep last night. He knows Dean’s got to be exhausted.

Sam’s eyes wander, bored, back to his brother. Dean’s breathing evenly now, already back asleep, and he’s hugging his pillow. The amulet Sam had given him the day of Dean’s first reaping has managed to find itself hanging down his back, probably from Dean’s tossing and turning throughout the night. The short sleeves he’s wearing are riding up to expose rope-like bruises on his wrists that he gets from working in the hydroelectric dam.

Sam frowns. Dean hasn’t gone to work in the hydroelectric dam in a while.

Dean gets a lot of bruises from work—he claims to wrap rope around his wrists when pulling it and that’s why he gets bruises there a lot. Sam has no idea why rope would be used while working on the dam, though. Especially rope that needs to be wrapped around Dean’s wrists or up and down his arms. But they don’t generally last this long; Dean hasn’t gone to work for two weeks.

Mornings like this—him the only one present and/or awake in the house—are pretty common for Sam. John’s out a lot, working with his friends on secret projects even Dean isn’t allowed to know about, and Dean’s normally out working even though he doesn’t need to. John says work ‘builds character’. Sam’s going to have to start working when he turns fourteen. For now, though, he stays home and does nothing for days on end except school.

It’s boring. And in the summer, it’s unbearable. Sam’s even made up an imaginary friend called Sully to help him pass the time, because he can only read the books on the shelves so many times. He can only sit still for so long. He almost wishes he could go to work with Dean. Almost—and then he looks back at the bruises on his brother’s wrist—but not quite.

As much as he’d like to go back to sleep, Sam can’t. He’s too jittery with a combination of excitement and trepidation for the Games. They’re fun to watch until you’re about to get reaped for them.

Not that he’s going to get reaped, he reminds himself. Dean will protect him. No matter what, Dean will protect him. And if Sam gets reaped, and Dean has to volunteer, what about it? Their father’s trained them well enough that Dean will win. He will, and then he’ll come home.

This is just another reaping.

Sam’s chest constricts at the thought of Dean turning nineteen and not being able to volunteer for him. He looks away from his brother to take his mind off that unpleasant thought, but then he notices the suits hanging on the door for the reaping. And if he turns away from  _ that _ , there’s a bookshelf on the wall full of books about Haven’s history—all with long, long chapters about the Games.

There’s really no escape from them, is there?

Sam checks his watch. The reaping is at 2:00, and it’s only 10:35 right now. Dean will be up soon enough.

* * *

The three Winchesters walk down a marked-off line especially reserved for Victors and their families, if they have any. Most of the time Victors are accompanied by siblings or parents, but rarely do Victors have children. Sam wonders why not.

A man that Sam knows is called Gordon Walker nods at John as the three black-suit-clad Winchesters walk past him. He’d been reaped with his sister in last year’s games. Sam had watched him behead her with a machete when they were the only two people left. Dean had excused himself from the room for that part.

John returns the nod, but Sam knows that he doesn’t trust Gordon. He and Dean aren’t allowed to talk to him, even though Gordon isn’t more than two years older than Dean. John has also said that Gordon won on luck because the strongest Career boy that had been the sure winner of his year’s Games, named Jerry Hollister, had gone a little crazy from hunger. He’d started to cut up the corpses of his victims and ate a few fingers before an avalanche crushed him. Everyone says the Gamemakers didn’t want a crazy Victor. If he hadn’t gone round the bend, he definitely would have killed Gordon and his sister.

Ellen and Jo Harvelle stand at attention a few feet away from Gordon. Even though Ellen’s husband was the Victor of the family, and he’s dead now, they’re still allowed in the Victor area, out of respect for their loss and also a little fear of Ellen. Jo is nice, but she’s Dean’s age and doesn’t pay Sam much attention. Sam knows Ellen and John have lots of meetings, but he doesn’t know what about.

John stops walking once he reaches Ellen’s side. Dean and Jo smile tightly at each other but don’t speak. The reaping may be scary when you’re thinking about it, but it’s plain terrifying when it’s happening. Sam thinks he might throw up.

He reaches up for Dean’s hand, which is something he hasn’t done since he was seven. Dean squeezes with his much larger hand and sends Sam a smile that is supposed to be reassuring, but it just makes Sam feel even worse. If even Dean’s worried, then he should definitely be worried. With his other hand, Dean rubs the amulet between his two fingers.

Dean can’t stop thinking about what John had said to him before they’d left for the reaping. He’d been adjusting Dean’s tie for him and murmured without making eye contact, “They know. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Dean had asked. Who knows what?

“I never wanted you to…” John shakes his head. “I didn’t want you to be like me.”

Which doesn’t make sense. Every moment of training has been for one purpose: to make Dean strong like John. Hell, he  _ wants _ to be like John. Wants to be his little clone. He wears John’s old clothes, after all. Tries to act like him. Because John doesn’t get scared, and Dean wishes to hell he wasn’t such a coward.

Dean doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but judging by the ticking muscle in his father’s jaw and the almost imperceptible crease between his eyebrows, he’s worried. Whatever John’s worried about must be bad.

No, he’s not worried. He’s nervous. Dean’s never seen John nervous and it makes him nervous too, which makes Sam nervous.

So they’re all very wired as they watch non-Victors fill into the stadium. No matter how many slow, controlled breaths he takes, Dean can’t stop his heart from racing. He doesn’t want Sam to be worried. Not on his first reaping, not when Victor’s children are never picked, not when Dean would rather die than let Sam get hurt in any way.

It’s why he steps in whenever John’s angry. Better… better to let Sam think that John’s just strict and just yells. Better to let Sam have good memories about at least one parent.

Dean pulls the cuffs of his sleeves lower over his wrists, anxiety telling him the bruises are visible. He just wants the unusually somber Castiel Novak to arrive and read out the names of the poor bastards picked for the Games this year. He just wants to be able to go back home with Sam and pretend to be interested in all the killing the way he’s supposed to be. The way Sam is.

Dean doesn’t know why he doesn’t find the Games entertaining. Everyone should. Sam does. It must be something wrong with him.

He tries to focus on the gamblers sneaking through the crowds, betting on who’ll be picked, what age they are, whether they’ll cry, etc. Most of the time the tributes cry. That, or they protest or struggle or scream. No one just  _ accepts _ their death. Tributes are more often older, too, and from the poorer families where they have to use the tesserae to feed their families. Generally only the people from the outer part of the district—called the Road—ever put their names in more than once, so they’re called more often than not. Dean can already hear it being called now; Alex Banes, or…

Dean can’t concentrate.

Just the faintest whisper in his brain of the unthinkable happening has Dean’s throat closing and a wave of grief more potent than anything he’s felt for his mother welling up in his eyes. He wants so badly to protect his brother, but he can only do so much. The Capitol, the Games, the reaping, this whole situation—it’s out of his control.

Dean transfers his gaze to the paper slips in the boy’s ball. There’s one slip in there with Sam’s name on it, handwriting still a little shaky, and five with his name on it with his familiar all-caps scrawl.

The odds are in their favor. It’s something Castiel always says to the district, in an attempt to appear empathetic, but the stone-cold look on his face says otherwise. He’s only one year older than Dean, and he’s obviously the youngest district escort of them all. Nobody really knows where he came from or how he got his job, but it’s obvious from the  _ everything _ about him that Castiel takes his job seriously.

Besides, the odds aren’t in everyone’s favor. They’re not in Road kids’ favor, where they have to put their names in over and over again to have enough food to eat. They’re definitely in Victor kids’ favor. Dean doesn’t know how the Capitol rigs the balls, but no Victor kid is ever chosen.

Right as the clock strikes two, District 5’s mayor, Prez Kline, stands up and starts to speak to the people. It’s the same story about how Haven was founded, with all the gritty little details included to make the Capitol look great. Before Haven, the world was barren. Everyone behaved like savages. The world was rife with sin. Drivel like that.

Dean’s lip curls as the mayor speaks, his pregnant wife standing behind him and occasionally rubbing her stomach. It can’t have been worse than this. He’s seen pictures, he’s seen starving people on the streets every district, even his own. District 5 is the second-richest district in Haven and every winter there’s at least seven kids that disappear from school. Life in the poorer districts must be hell.

At least in the past there wasn’t the Games. Twenty-four children weren’t forced to fight to the death every year, and it most certainly wasn’t broadcasted on television as an absurd festival.

Dean can hear the undertone in Prez’s words. He can hear the implied “Look at your dead children and cry because you can’t do anything. Watch as we laugh at their corpses because it’s all a game to us. Watch as we punish you for some crime you didn’t even commit, watch as your children and grandchildren die for a crime they wouldn’t even consider”.

He can hear it, and he despises it, but what can Dean do? Nothing.

The speech ends, to strained applause (John doesn’t clap, though Sam and Dean bring their hands together twice each). Castiel stands up, smoothes out his brown trenchcoat, and announces, in his gravelly voice, “Ladies first.”

Sam squeezes Dean’s hand. Dean had forgotten that he had even been holding it. Dean squeezes back, too, so hard that maybe Sam’s fingers will break and he’ll be exempt from the reaping. Would that work? Dean wonders. Probably not, and even if it worked this time, Sam wouldn’t be exempt every other year.

Besides, Dean’s pretty sure his name is going to be called this year. If it is, he’ll have to go to the Games—this isn’t a Career district, where people are climbing over themselves to volunteer. Sure, District 5 has a pretty high rate of Victors, but nobody  _ wants _ to go to the Games. Not everyone is as crazy and barbaric as the Careers.

There hasn’t been a District 5 volunteer since the thirty-second Games.

Maybe Dean would have preferred to be born into a Career district. If his name was called in District One, he’d have at least four people already shouting “I volunteer as tribute!” before ‘Winchester’ was even finished being said. Same for Sam.

No, John had said he was sorry and that he hadn’t wanted Dean to be like him. Like him, as in a tribute. A killer. The Capitol must have found out about John’s resentment, his meetings with Ellen, and the contacts they’ve set up. They must have found out about John’s rebelliousness.

Considering the Games spawned from the last attempted rebellion, Dean had told his father to quit it the moment he found out what John was—is still—planning. He hadn’t, and now Dean’s name is going to be drawn. He knows it. The Capitol likes to punish; how else do you explain that girl from District 7 who’d put up a fuss, shouting things about how the Games were unfair, when her brother was drawn, and then the next year her name was drawn as well? How else do you explain how, whenever anyone is caught on camera doing anything other than celebrating the Games and the deaths of innocent children, they’re put into the Games the next year?

The Capitol is trying to send a message to John, but he’s already received it, and forwarded it to Dean, and now Dean’s going to die. His throat is so dry. He swallows, feeling shaky like he might faint. He doesn’t want to die. To hide the tremors of his fingers, Dean clenches them into a fist.

A Peacekeeper breaks rank and whispers something into Castiel’s ear, causing murmurs to rumble again through the District 5 ranks. Peacekeeper’s aren’t supposed to talk to escorts when they’re on stage. This has never happened in all the time Dean’s gone to the reaping.

After a moment, the District 5 escort nods, frowning a bit—though, Dean reflects, Castiel always does seem to be frowning.

Castiel reaches inside the girl’s ball and draws out a slip. The name he reads out is one that Dean hadn’t been considering would be called, but should have. It cements his belief that the next name out of the boy’s ball will be his. He doesn’t know how the Capitol rigged the balls, but he knows he’s going to die. Dean’s going to  _ die _ .

Castiel reads out, “Joanna Harvelle.”

Dean’s eyes track as he puts the slip of paper into his pocket.

Jo doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream and she certainly doesn’t struggle. When the Peacekeepers come sweeping in, both to escort her to the stage of certain death and to keep people from rioting—Victor’s kids aren’t supposed to be reaped—Jo shakes them off and walks up the path to the stage, head held high. Dean notices the shake of her hands, the way her feet fall unsteady and very, very light on the ground. Murmurs follow her, heads turning, and all Dean can think about is how disappointed the Capitol people watching the broadcast must be now that she’s not making a fuss.

When Dean turns his head, Ellen’s shoulders are shaking as she tries to hold back her sobs, but she’s not doing it well. She turns her head and puts it on John’s shoulder, one hand pressed against her mouth to muffle the sounds. She hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to her daughter. She’ll do that later tonight during the visiting.

Sam’s hand squeezes Dean’s again, smiling up at him, and relief rushes through Dean. Sam shouldn’t be the one to be reassuring him, but it works. Dean will have to return the favor another time.

(But why is he smiling? Jo’s about to  _ die. _ Doesn’t he see that?)

“Now it’s time for our boy tribute!” Castiel declares. Again, the Peacekeeper steps forward, and again, the crowd murmurs. Neither Dean nor Sam notice the way John’s eyes narrow or the way he stiffens, raising his chin and clenching his jaw.

“We’re gonna be okay, bitch,” Dean whispers in a last-ditch attempt to relieve the stress wrinkling the skin around Sam’s eyes.

“J-jerk.” It doesn’t work.

Castiel reaches into the ball. It’s stuffed to the brim with thousands of other names, some of them repeated many more times than five. The odds that he’ll touch a slip with the name Winchester on it are next to none, but Dean’s stomach still won’t settle, especially when Castiel withdraws his hand. A few spare slips of paper fall onto the ground.

Castiel raises the paper to the light, squinting as if he’s having trouble reading it. It’s irrational, but Dean knows his handwriting is terrible—it can’t be his, though, most boys here have worse handwriting than him, right?

Before Castiel reads the name out loud, he looks around the crowd. Dean swears he makes eye contact with the startlingly blue gaze, but all too soon Castiel’s eyes are fixed again on the slip of paper.

He reads aloud, “Samuel Winchester.”


	3. Lypophrenia

Dean doesn’t like to think about when his dad gets mad. Like,  _ really _ mad, like bellowing-in-Dean’s-face-mad, or punching-his-lights-out-mad. He can always tell when it’s coming; John is hardly a spontaneous person. Either it’s after Sam buys enough food for Dean to eat a full meal too, or after John’s been drinking a while, or whenever Sam sneaks out or gets in trouble or hurt in any way. John only gets angry at Dean when Sam does something wrong, really, because it’s Dean’s job to look after him.

Dean can always tell when it’s coming, and it always makes his stomach churn when he thinks about the punishment he’ll be facing. The trepidation of facing his angry father is almost as strong as facing the reaping. Dean had thought he had known this was coming, too; he’d known something bad was coming.

He hadn’t expected it to be  _ this _ .

_ This _ is worse than John slapping him.  _ This _ is worse than the days spent hungry because it’s good training.  _ This _ is worse than the cuts from the broken alcohol bottles, or the angry fists, or the cutting words—

Sam whimpers, his hand falling out of Dean’s as he stares up at his big brother. The terror in his multicolored eyes hurts worse than anything Dean’s ever endured. This is exactly what Sam had feared.

People’s muted glares sweep around the square. Twelve-year-olds aren’t supposed to be reaped—well, no one is, really, but it’s not fair for twelve-year-olds to be reaped. It’s not  _ fair _ .

Dean’s head snaps around when the Peacekeepers come closer to escort his baby brother to the stage. His lip curls at their forms. He’ll tear them limb from limb if they even think about touching Sammy,  _ his _ Sammy—

John clears his throat behind Dean and nudges him with shoulder. He hadn’t even bothered to wonder if Dean would do it. A bright flame of resentment flares up and dies just as quickly inside Dean; why does it have to be  _ him _ ? Why did it have to be Sam?

Because Dean would die for Sam in a heartbeat, and John knows it. Because Sam is Dean’s responsibility. Because Sam is Dean’s little brother, and it is his  _ job _ to protect him, and more than that, Dean loves Sam more than anything else in the world.

Sam takes a hesitant step forward, still glancing back at his father and brother as if they’ll be able to fix it, and the worst thing is that Dean can fix it. He can.

Dean lunges forward and yanks Sam back, sending him stumbling against John’s sturdy, unmoving front. “I’ll go,” Dean utters through numb lips. “I volunteer.” The announcement is a mere formality; the moment Sam’s name came out of that bastard Castiel’s mouth Dean had made up his mind. The last few seconds he’d tried to hold onto by standing small next to his father and standing tall next to his brother are gone, over, out of his hands like grains of dirt, and he’ll never pick them up again.

“No!” Sam lunges at Dean and tries to wrap skinny limbs around Dean’s torso. The Games had always seemed like just that—games—until Sam’s name was the one called and his older brother is walking up to the stage instead of him, next to their friend that he’ll have to kill.

It’s never been this close to home for Sam.

Not even when he’d had nightmares about being called had he reacted this way. Not even when his mind had wandered down dark fantasies had he ever felt in his chest the sinking feeling that comes with watching your brother go off and get hurt.

John scoops Sam up into his arms, even though the screaming twelve-year-old is much too big to be held and has been for years.

Dean was never small enough to be held.

“Dean!” Sam screams, scratching at John’s arms. “Dean, don’t go!” He holds one pleading, desperate hand out to Dean, hoping against hope Dean will grab onto it and someone else will volunteer, but miracles don’t happen. Little boys are chosen to die so their brothers die for them. That’s just how the world works.

_ Shut up, Sammy _ , Dean tries to command with his eyes.  _ The Capitol will go after you again next year, and I won’t be able to protect you then. Please _ . He walks through the sea of parted children, not begrudging them the relieved looks in their eyes—he’s sported the same look for the past four years whenever his name wasn’t called.

The platform’s stairs are too high up, or maybe his boots are too heavy, because each step feels more impossible than the next. Dean makes it up through sheer force alone and stands next to Jo. When he stares out at the crowd, the only thing he sees is Sam. John’s hand is clamped over his brother’s mouth so he can’t scream, but his eyes are red and tears are streaking down his cheeks.

It’s better than him being dead.

On the stage, Dean shakes Castiel’s hand and stumbles a bit, brushing past the man and into his trenchcoat. “What is your name?” Castiel asks gravely, holding out his microphone to Dean. As if he doesn’t know. Sam had been screaming it, and Dean’s a Victor’s child, just like Jo. People  _ know _ him, even if he’ll never live up to his father’s reputation.

He was supposed to be untouchable.

Dean has to blink a few times to get rid of the weakness of frustration glimmering in his eyes. He leans in, not breaking eye contact with the escort, and says, “Dean Winchester.” Maybe Castiel will see the venom in his gaze and understand just how much Dean would like to throttle him and rip him limb from limb. His right hand is clenched into a tight fist, which is the only thing stopping him from rubbing the amulet hanging around his neck—a nervous habit. Dean would like nothing more than to smash it into Castiel’s face.

“Then you volunteered for your brother?”

Dean would like nothing more than to kill him. He wishes Castiel had been a tribute in another district instead of District 5’s escort so Dean could tear his throat out during the bloodbath. He would like to push away the microphone shoved in his face and lunge for the escort. Instead of killing the man, however, he just nods.

“District 5, applaud your victors!” the escort says (demands). Silence greets him, silence that makes Dean smile a little bit inside. Castiel lowers the microphone from his mouth and murmurs, “Courage.  _ I _ applaud you,” so quietly Dean barely hears it. He and Jo exchange confused glances.

Dean thinks he might just throw up. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, relaxing the fist his right hand had been clenched into, and meets Sam’s eyes again as nobody applauds. John’s hand is still over Sam’s mouth, but that isn’t stopping the younger brother from shaking his head as vehemently as he can.

_ This isn’t the last time I see him, _ Dean reminds himself.  _ I still get later. _

Ellen puts three fingers of her left hand to her lips and raises them up into the air. It’s an old symbol that was only used to say thank you, to show admiration, to say goodbye to someone you love. If anyone, Dean would have expected that from her, because neither District 5 or his father would be dumb enough to pull a stunt like that, no matter where the intentions come from. Like a wave, though, first Gordon puts up his fingers and then a man Dean barely knows named Garth. All too soon everyone’s hands are in the air, saluting him and Jo.

Everyone’s hands except Sam and John’s.

The Capitol’s anthem starts to play and hands fall limply out of the air like shot birds. It drags on but Dean doesn’t hear it. His gaze is fixed on the ground.

Jo bumps against him, her jaw tense. “Let’s go.”

“Where…”

The Peacekeepers fall into step around the tributes and Dean remembers. All tributes are ‘escorted’ to the Justice Building. It’s a gesture of respect; all it does is keep people from trying to run from the Games.

Jo and Dean separate at different doors and Dean steps inside a rich room. It’s not entirely alien to him. The house he lives in—lived in—had looked a little bit like this, but while this room looks maintained, his house is sort of… dead. The curtains in this room are a deep red, while the curtains at his home are faded and torn. The carpet is clean and soft while the one in Dean’s house is ragged from constant cleaning when alcohol is spilled or bottles broken on its surface. The only real difference is that the couch and chairs are covered with velvet and soft.

This room is a safe space. Dean’s house is, most of the time, filled with what used to be energy, what used to be light, and what is now ghosts.

Much as Dean would love to enjoy his lavish surroundings, the reason why he’s here isn’t something he can very well forget. He’s going to die in a few days, isn’t he? He should be enjoying the special treatment, except for the fact that he has to stop himself from shuddering with revulsion at every brush against soft fabric against his skin. This lavishness is disgusting when compared to the deplorable conditions the districts have to live in.

The door opens so hard it slams against the wall, and Dean’s barely turned around before a small form launches itself into his arms. It’s Sam, and Dean sits down heavily on the couch as his lecherous little brother wraps his skinny limbs around him, as if he’ll be able to stop Dean from being taken by the Peacekeepers.

Sam and John are Dean’s first visitors, and, he suspects, his only visitors. An isolated childhood doesn’t lead to very many friends.

Sam sniffs into Dean’s neck, one finger hooked around the chain around Dean’s neck, and Dean puts his hand on the younger boy’s head. He’d love to stay in this moment forever, where things are about to go to shit but Sam’s with him, and that’s really all that matters. He’s never really appreciated how great it feels to be alive and with Sam until he realized he was just a walking corpse.

When a shadow falls over the pair, Dean looks up into his father’s face. John looks so old in the shadows created by the thick curtains. The light that gets through highlights the creases in his face, and the shadows make him look eyeless.

“You gave us quite a scare there,” John finally says.

Dean frowns.  _ What— _

“I thought for a moment you wouldn’t volunteer,” he continues. Dean tries not to wilt visibly. He knows he’s not the favorite son, but it would be nice if John could even pretend for a moment that he likes Dean. Just a little bit. That’s all Dean wants.

“Of course,” Dean says finally, heavily. He’d die for Sam. He’s  _ going _ to die for Sam.

When Sam shifts on his lap, paper crinkles in his pocket and Dean remembers. He reaches into his pocket and draws out the slips he’d stolen from Castiel’s pocket. With visibly shaking fingers, he unfolds them and shows them to his father. He hasn’t even looked at them yet, but he knows John should.

John takes the slips of paper after wiping his eyes.  _ Is he just acting, _ Dean wonders,  _ or is he really worried about me? _

After only a second, he shows Dean them. On the slips of paper are two names that Dean doesn’t recognize: Ezra Moore and Bucky Sims. There’s no chance they’re not the papers Castiel had drawn from the balls; that special type of paper is only used for that one purpose. Dean remembers the Peacekeeper that had whispered to Castiel just before he’d spoken.

Settling down on the couch, John admits, “I knew it.” He keeps his voice low and Dean follows his lead; there’s probably mikes in this room as well. “We got sloppy during our last meeting. Naomi’s bugs must have picked us up and this is her way of telling me she knows—”

“It’s a warning,” Dean says quietly, rubbing Sam’s back firmly. Sam needs to be strong now, more than ever.

“Either way…” John trails off, but Dean’s pretty sure he knows what his father was going to say. He finishes for him.

“Either way, one of your children is going to pay the price.”

Resentment curls up in his throat like a snake and bleeds into his tone, so sharp even John winces. Dean isn’t the one that’s rebelling. Dean would be perfectly content to stay under the radar at District 5, a Victor’s child with privileges not many other people have. As long as Sam’s with him. He’s not the one so stupid he’s putting his own children in the line of fire.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Dean hates President Naomi. He wants Naomi to die. He wants to kill Naomi with his bare hands, wants to choke her to death and see the light leave those cold, dead eyes. He wants people to have enough food, not just him and Sam. Dean wants so much. He wants, he wants, he wants… but what he wants most of all is Mary back.

He knows, though, that he can’t have those things. He can settle for him and Sam to be safe, even if Sam is getting warped every time he laughs as someone dies in the Games. Even if Dean doesn’t even recognize him sometimes.

Dean can still save his brother. He just needs to get back to him.

Sam lifts his head up from the crook of Dean’s neck and sniffs loudly, wiping his nose on his sleeve as he asks, “You’re gonna come back, though, right?”

Dean smooths his brother’s hair away from his face and stares into Sam’s aged, multicolored eyes. Even if Sam doesn’t know it yet, all that death he revels in takes a toll on someone. Dean would like nothing more than run off into the hills with Sam—John and everyone else be damned—but he can’t.

The fact that Dean can’t trust his brother not to come back to this hell of his own volition says a lot.

“Of course,” Dean lies. He fakes a smile at his little brother. He’s dying for him, isn’t he? He might as well be sure that he’s dying for someone he knows. “Of course I will be, bitch. I’ll be back before you know it, okay? But while I’m gone, you have to be strong, all right?” Dean tries to laugh but it just croaks. “Don’t pick any fights with Dad, all right?”  _ Not when I’m not there to protect you. _ “And… tell him to pull his head out of his ass, all right? Look what his work’s done now.”

John bears the full brunt of Dean’s glare unflinchingly, just staring blankly at the ground like he’s in shock.

“Jerk. And good,” Sam breathes, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Good you’re not gonna leave us like Mom.” A harshness twists his features that makes Dean reel back. “She left us on purpose, but you’re not gonna leave us, right, Dean?”

“W-what—” Dean looks up at John. “‘Left us’?” he repeats. “‘ _ Left us’ _ ?”

“We can talk about this later,” John tries, but Dean shakes his head.

“I can’t believe you. I just can’t…” he looks down at Sam, who’s watching the arguing with wide eyes. In them Dean can see his own reflection.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Sam whimpers, little fingers twisting into Dean’s shirt.

“Well, I’ll…”

Dean can’t say he’ll be back. He can’t lie to Sam any more than he already has. It’ll already crush him when he sees Dean die. Speaking of…

Dean stands up, toppling Sam off his lap, and maybe he wouldn’t have been so careless had he not known that the Peacekeepers are walking down the hallway as he hissed to his father, “Don’t let him watch… me. Don’t let him watch that.”

John lifts one eyebrow. “What, don’t let him see you kill people? Sure.”

Dean knows John knows what he means, but Dean doesn’t know what John means. Nobody ever really knows with John. Sometimes, though, Ellen will tell Dean that Mary always knew what John meant. “I guess this is goodbye, sir.”

John pulls him into a hug that squeezes the air out of his lungs. “You’ll be back, Dean.”

Dean tries not to scoff, but the sound escapes his lungs without his permission.

“You hear me, boy?” John commands. “You’ll be back. I trained you well.”

Dean’s laugh is hysterical. “Yeah, and I’ll be going up against girls that can kill me six ways to Sunday and boys two times my size—”

“Trust me,” John says, pulling him into one last hug. “You’ll come back.”

The door opens but much softer than when Sam had slammed it open. Two Peacekeepers stand in the doorway, surveying Sam, who’s got tears streaking down his face again and is clinging to Dean’s leg; John, who’s hulking behind his sons like their demonic shadow; and Dean, who’s trying not to hyperventilate.

“No,” Sam says softly.

“Time’s up,” the Peacekeepers insist.

Dean bends down and tries to pry Sam’s fingers from around him. Sam shakes his head resolutely. “No, Dean, please, don’t go!”

Dean’s not entirely sure what Sam’s trying to do—is this just him acting in the heat of the moment, or is he trying to help Dean? At this point all he’s doing is hurting him. Dean has to blink away the wetness in his eyes and screw them up. He’s in serious danger of crying.

John has to help Dean get Sam off of him by prying each finger away from Dean’s pants individually. He scoops the younger boy up, disregarding Sam’s screams, and starts towards the Peacekeepers, who are tapping their wrists impatiently.

“No!” Sam howls, beating at John’s hands. “No! Dean! No!”

“I love you, Sammy,” Dean tries, a watery smile accompanying the first time he’s ever said those words to the only person he’s really loved, apart from his mother and father. Now that he’s never going to see Sam again, he realizes he should have said it so much more. “Now stop being such a bitch.”

Sam doesn’t say it back.

He has another visitor after John and Sam, who leave a ringing sound in everyone’s ears following the absence of Sam’s screams. It’s Ellen. Her eyes are puffy and red, but she still manages a smile when she sees him. “Come here, boy.”

Dean falls into her gratefully. When he pulls away, he’s already asking, “You’ll look after Sam?” Immediately he winces. He can’t ask that of Ellen, not after she’s going to watch Jo die just like how John and Sam are going to watch Dean die.

“‘Course, boy,” she croaks out. “Me and Bobby Singer’ve got ‘em covered.”

“B—Bobby Singer?” Dean stutters. Bobby’s a bit of a legend in the District 5 community, but he’s such a hermit he’s only ever seen out when his special food packages are delivered and during the reaping. “Don’t tell me you’ve got Bobby dragged up in all of this—”

Ellen puts a hand over his mouth, but Dean pulls it away. “‘S not like it’s much of a secret!” He brandishes the slips of paper he’d stolen from Castiel. “Sam and Jo were chosen on purpose.  _ They know _ .”

Ellen barely glances at them as she sinks down onto the couch and covers her face with shaking hands. “I knew it. John was too cocky—”

“They’re onto you,” Dean hisses, kneeling in front of her. “So you have to stop. I won’t be able to protect Sam next year, but I’ll protect Jo as much as I can this year—”

Ellen lets out a muffled sob and stands up. “May the odds be in your favor, Dean.”

“I’m so sorry, Ellen,” Dean says helplessly as she walks away. “Please, I’m begging you, stop what you’re doing.”

She doesn’t look back.

No one else visits Dean. He’d already had one more visitor than he’d expected, so he’s not disappointed. It is pretty lonely to wait for the Peacekeepers to escort him to the train station, though, and he wishes that John and Sam had been able to stay for a little longer.

Even if Sam apparently believes the propaganda about their mother that she’d hung herself.

John has never said anything about it to Dean or Sam explicitly. Maybe the memories were too painful for him, or he just didn’t want to bear the questions that always come up when discussing Mary. Either way, he didn’t need to for Dean, and Dean had just always assumed that Sam knew the truth about Mary. Stupidly assumed, by the looks of it.

Well, obviously it was stupid. There’s no way Sam would remember her death; he was six months old, for crying out loud! Dean was four and, though he doesn’t remember a lot of things about being four, he does remember what happened. You can’t just forget something like that.

The Peacekeepers knock on the door to summon him and Dean sits up abruptly.  _ Time to go. _

He already misses his family.


	4. Efflorescence

Jo doesn’t look like she’s been crying.

Dean finds that a bit surprising, considering how teary Ellen had been when she’d visited him, but Jo’s always full of surprises. Like when she’d convinced Dean to sneak out of his house in the middle of the night and they’d ended up beyond the district’s borders, something they’ve never spoken of again for fear of the hidden mikes they know are all around them.

Even if she doesn’t look like she’s  _ been _ crying, though, she looks like she might start any second. When Dean catches a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror, he’s gratified to learn he just looks bored. He doesn’t want to give the Capitol lechers any more entertainment than necessary. He even manages to keep his hands from drifting up to touch the amulet nervously.

The cameras drink up their appearances for a few minutes before Castiel appears, his trademark trenchcoat flapping in the wind. “Once we’re on the train, you are both entitled to whatever commodity is available. Don’t hesitate to ask.” As usual, his dumb, gravely, deep voice sets Dean on edge. He considers pushing Castiel onto the tracks just as the train arrives, but he can’t. He could be arrested, or—more likely—the Gamemakers will make it that much harder for Dean to survive in the arena.

Dean’s going to play by their rules. He will, in order to get back to Sam, and then he’ll convince John to drop his stupid rebellion ideas and they’ll all live out their lives in peace.

The train is even more luxurious than the room in the Justice building, and this is what has Dean marveling. It’s so  _ extravagant _ . There is enough food in his room to feed a whole family for a whole week, not just one tribute boy that’s already dead. The water in the bathroom is warm, a commodity Dean knows is scarce, and there’s more clothes in the closet than he knows what to do with.

Dean takes up most of the exploring time by taking a nice hot shower. He might as well enjoy the little luxuries of life while he’s around to experience them, right?

After he gets out of the shower, he doesn’t want to get back into his suit and tie. The majority of the clothes in his closet are either among the same lines as the outfit he came here in or extravagant and made for people in the Capitol. Finally Dean pulls out a blue button-up shirt with a nice pattern on it that he doesn’t know the name for. It’s obviously Capitol—nobody in the Districts, save for the mayors, wears clothes with patterns, and even then the patterns they wear aren’t as detailed as this. Still, it’s not as extravagant as most of the other things in the closet, so he’ll settle. Plus, it has buttons on the cuffs to prevent the fabric from riding up his arms. It’s easy to hide the amulet under the shirt.

A sharp knock startles Dean and he jumps. When he turns around, Castiel is standing in the doorway, still wearing his stupid trenchcoat.  _ Does he  _ ever _ change? _

“It is time for dinner,” the escort says seriously. Dean has to resist the urge to laugh. Has the dude ever cracked a smile in his life? It’s not like dinner is the most serious thing in the entire world. “I like your flannel.”

Dean blinks and looks down at the shirt.  _ Is that what it’s called _ ? After a long moment, he swallows and manages, “Thanks.”

“Follow me.”

Dean trails after Castiel through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with shiny polished panel walls. Jo is already at the table, wearing a light blue shirt and dark pants. She manages a small smile at Dean when their eyes meet, but Dean can see the question in her eyes:  _ When are we going to talk about this? _ Because Jo isn’t dumb. She knows what her mom and John are up to. She’s undoubtedly put it together just like Dean had.

A thick carrot soup comes in first—Castiel emphasizes it being  _ first _ , as in, there will be more, because of course these Capitol scumbags have more than one thing for every meal. Dean doesn’t like the taste of it, but the consistency is soothing and he’s hungry—last night he hadn’t been able to eat anything; Sam had been hungry—so he gulps it down as soon as he can. Jo takes her time and doesn’t even finish the course; Ellen didn’t train her the way John trained Dean.

Salad comes after the soup, which Dean turns his nose up at—leaves aren’t going to help him gain as much strength as he can before the Games. Jo just moves the leaves around her plate.

After that is the main course of lamb chops and mashed potatoes, and after that is cheese and fruit, and finally servants bring out separate pies for everyone. Now  _ that _ is something Dean can get behind. If there’s anything his father’s told him, it’s to eat whenever you can because you never know when you’ll get your next meal. Plus, pie.

“I shouldn’t be surprised you two know basic table manners,” Castiel says during the main course, breaking the stony silence that had fallen over the room. “You are both Victor children. The last tributes I escorted had not seen a fork before in their lives.”

Dean scowls at the table. The tributes last year had both been from the Road and had never had enough to eat in their lives. The comment ticks him off so much he doesn’t touch his fork for the rest of the meal. He catches Castiel’s eyes flicking over to him as he eats the pie off his knife, and he hopes he’s annoying the escort half as much as the escort annoys him.

After the meal is over, Dean can feel a burp coming up and tries as hard as he can to hold it down. He’s not used to so much rich food and fears that if he does burp, his meal will come up with the air.

Castiel leads him and Jo into another compartment so Dean can watch the rest of the reaping. The reapings are staggered throughout the day, so conceivably people could attend all of them, if people could use the train system and wanted to go to the reapings. Really, only the Capitol and Careers like anything to do with the Games. And Capitol citizens would rather eat one course for a meal than visit the districts.

One by one, the reapings are called. There are the usual volunteers in the Career districts, but Dean is the only volunteer for a non-Career district. Only a few people stand out in Dean’s mind as he watches the faces, all pale with fear no matter their usual hue, blur on the screen. The first is a brunette named Ava Wilson from District 10 who starts to cry the second her name is called and doesn’t stop. After that is a hobbled boy named Kubrick (Dean doesn’t catch his last name) from the same district. The most haunting, though, is the reaping of a little twelve-year-old girl with a mole under her left eye, named Krissy Chambers. She walks to the stage unflinchingly and when her escort asks for volunteers, all that can be heard is the whistling of wind through the buildings.

Krissy, too, is a Victor’s child. Dean wonders if this is just a stunt being pulled by the Capitol—showing that the rules, even if they’re unspoken, don’t matter to them. Or was it random? Or are her parents caught up in this rebellion business as well?

Without even thinking about it, Dean catches himself watching Castiel for his reaction when Krissy’s name is called. The escort’s face remains impassive and Dean’s lip curls. What an emotionless son of a bitch. Correction—what a son of a bitch that revels in all this death and suffering just like the rest of the Capitol.

Just after the program ends, a hulking figure appears in the doorway and asks, “I miss dinner?”

“We set some aside for you,” Castiel replies. Dean can’t tell if his tone is respectful because there is no inflection. Maybe all escorts are this emotionless. Sure, being in the Capitol and appreciating the Games is one thing, but being an escort and having to deal with the itty-gritty details of breakdowns and panicked children? That would turn even the most psychotic spoiled Capitol citizen off, wouldn’t it? Or would they just find it more amusing?

The figure steps further into the room, letting light spill over their face, and with some shock Dean recognizes Bobby Singer.

Internally he groans. Tributes’ mentors are supposed to help them during the Games by finding sponsors. Bobby Singer has been holed up in his house for the past fifty years or so—what contacts could he possibly have?

He and Jo are really going to die, aren’t they?

Also, didn’t Ellen say that Bobby singer’s in on the rebellion too? So either the Capitol doesn’t know about that or he’s walking right into the beehive with no idea.

Dean looks into Bobby’s dark eyes, the deep lines on his face, and rethinks that notion. He’s walking right into the beehive with the intention to poke it with a stick.  _ Great, _ Dean thinks sarcastically, _ my mentor’s just gonna piss people off instead of actually helping me. _

“Tributes,” Bobby says, glaring at him and Jo. “Eat with me. Escort, get out.”

Castiel lowers his head just the slightest, but the light is reflecting off his eyes so Dean can’t see if he’s showing the respect genuinely or if it’s mockingly. Either way, Castiel stands up and sweeps out of the room, the familiar swoosh of his trenchcoat accompanying his exit.

Bobby hasn’t eaten more than a bite of the carrot soup before his face screws up and he swallows with obvious disgust. The Capitol servants don’t even need him to speak before they’re taking the course away, skipping the salad, and coming straight in with the lamb chops and mashed potatoes.

“All right,” he finally says, putting his napkin in his lap. “So what’s your game plan?”

Dean and Jo exchange confused glances. “We don’t know what the arena will be,” Jo ventures. “We can’t plan—”

“Of course you can plan!” Bobby growls. “Did your daddy teach you nothin’? I thought I mentored him better than that.”

Jo sits back in her chair, shocked, and Dean takes over the questioning.

“So there is a way to prepare?” He’s going to get Jo out of that arena, no matter what.

Bobby snorts. “Will you blend into the crowd or stand out? Your strategy all stands on that decision. If you blend into the crowd, will you unleash your true colors once inside the arena or pull an Ennis Ross and wait until everyone’s slaughtered each other to stop hiding? If you—”

“All right!” Dean interrupts. Then a terrible thought occurs to him and he shoots a side glance at Jo. “But should we really be discussing our strategy in front of each other? I mean, we will be—”

“Oh, shove it up your ass, Dean Winchester!” Jo exclaims, crossing her arms.

Dean’s mouth snaps closed.

“If you seriously think that I’m going to kill you, then I guess our friendship means nothing to you, hmm? Or if you think I’m going to let you kill me—” she lets out a derisive snort. “Yeah, try coming home and looking my mom in the eyes. No, we’re going to work together.”

“But if—”

Jo holds up a silencing hand. Bobby just watches the squabbling with amused eyes that gleam behind his facial hair. “Chances are that one of us won’t even make it to the final two, right? So we don’t need to worry about that.”

_ Chances. Odds. _ The odds have hardly been in Dean or Jo’s favor, though. He presses, “But what  _ if _ —”

“I’m not killing you,” Jo repeats. “And you’re not killing me.” She looks meaningfully at Bobby.

“We’ll need an angle to sell it,” Bobby says suddenly, laying down his fork almost silently. “It’s never happened before and Naomi won’t like it—”

“Won’t like  _ what _ ?” Dean asks, frustrated with their riddles and half-sentences. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you suggesting we just chill in the arena for the rest of our lives, refusing to kill the other? Because you know they’ll just send more obstacles until one of us dies.”

“The Capitol likes drama, don’t they?” Jo asks rhetorically. “What about star-crossed lovers forced to fight together but vowing not to kill each other?”

Bobby nods and continues, “And the people won’t be too happy if one of you is forced to kill the other—if there’s anything they like more than death, it’s fairytale happy endings, isn’t it?”

Dean sits back in his chair and exhales, stunned. “You’re suggesting we…”

“Pull off the biggest trick the Capitol’s ever seen,” Jo finishes, her eyes glinting dangerously. She smiles widely at Dean, apparently not affected by the same butterflies in his stomach. This is the closest he’s been to vomiting in years—the last time had been when he was thirteen and John had punched him in the stomach. Other than that, he’d never eaten enough for his stomach to want to regurgitate.

But the very thought of pretending that with Jo… while it could save both their lives, they’ll have to stay together. There will be uproar if they ever break up. And while Dean loves her, Jo is his little sister. Then again, there’s not really a reason for him to fall in love with another woman. What would he do with her? Make kids to be reaped? No thanks. Maybe this really is the best option for him.

“You really think it will work?”

“I doubt we’ll need it, but it’s always nice to have a backup plan,” is Jo’s evasive answer.

Bobby settles back in his chair and laces his fingers over his full stomach, a suspicious smile gracing his features. This is the first time he’s ever seen tributes from this District anything but resigned to their fate. Never hopeful for survival, and definitely never hopeful to break the rules of the Games irreversibly. “Now get to bed!” he barks suddenly, making both Dean and Jo jump. “You’ll be up before you know it tomorrow, and we’ve got so much more to talk about.”

* * *

Dean wakes up to the sound of footsteps in his room. When his eyes open, he’s immediately met with Castiel standing over him. “ _ Shit _ !”

“I apologize,” the escort says. “But it is time to rise. Breakfast is served.”

“What, are you some sort of freak?” Dean mutters, throwing the covers off his legs. “All right. I’m coming.”

Castiel inclines his head at Dean as well and leaves, obviously intending for him to follow. Dean rolls his eyes but trails after the infuriating escort.

Bobby and Jo are already at the table. Jo is dipping some pieces of bread into a brown drink while Bobby waters down what looks to be orange juice with a spirit of some sort.

Dean knows what spirits look like. He sees his dad buying them all the time.

He settles down at the table and looks at his selections. Just the bowl of bread in front of him could feed a Road family for a whole week, and he bets that once the bread gets a little bit stale these Capitol folk just throw it away.

Dean tears his eyes away from that sight and over to the pies.

“All right,” Bobby says without preamble. “Since it’s my job to take care of your asses, I need to know what your strengths are.” He looks at Jo first, since her mouth isn’t stuffed to the brim with apple pie. “You look like you’re fast, little miss. And that knife in your boot says you’re good with them.”

Jo flushes and crosses her legs to hide the hilt of the knife that had ridden up. Dean flashes a worried look at Castiel—surely the escort would be alarmed about that—but he’s just staring out the window. The light creates shadows that accentuate his sharp jawline and the stubble on his chin. For the first time Dean realizes that Castiel isn’t a robot—he’s a human, and he doesn’t know any better just like Sam.

“And what about you?” Bobby turns to Dean, rubbing his chin, and Dean looks hastily away from Castiel. “You’re a legacy. So what has your daddy taught you?”

“‘Legacy’?”

“Victor’s child,” Bobby says impatiently. “You’re their legacy. It’s the term—” He cuts himself off abruptly. “Dean. Is that short for anything? Dean, what’s your strength?”

“It’s just Dean,” he replies shortly. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not a Career. I haven’t been training for the Games.” It’s the lie his father has drilled into him just in case.

A flurry of movement stops Bobby from saying anything else as the tributes and Victor watch Castiel leave the room, making Dean frown. What’s the escort playing at? If they’re talking about bringing weapons into the Capitol and training despite not being Careers, Castiel should be listening to every word so he can report them.

Then again, maybe Castiel doesn’t feel like playing spy because Jo and Dean will be dead soon anyway.

Dean looks back at Bobby. His eyes, which are keen and young despite the wrinkles that surround them, seem to pierce right through Dean’s persona like an X-ray, revealing the terror he’s so good at hiding.

Dean is just  _ so scared. _ He wants to go home. He wants to see Sam. He wants to go to his boring work and watch the Games from his safe living room and he wants to not be able to eat as much as he would like but  _ enough _ .

Not this, where he’s with Jo in an alien train and the only thing that awaits him is a bloody, gruesome death.

He’s glad he’s here to protect Jo, though. He can’t help but wonder—if Sam’s name wasn’t the one picked, would he have volunteered still? Or would he have let a stranger get onto the train with Jo? Would he have let Jo get brutally murdered? Would he have voluntarily signed up for certain death and killing to save her?

Dean knows what it’s going to feel like. He’s going to feel blood run over his hands. He’s probably going to taste the spray of it in his mouth. Some of it might get in his eyes. He’s going to kill, but it’s much different than killing animals like John had forced him to. And then he’s going to be the prey. He’s going to feel a knife or an arrow or just a pair of strong fists take him down, and the worst thing? The worst thing isn’t that he’s sixteen. The worst thing isn’t that Jo will die too. The worst thing isn’t even that his death isn’t going to faze anyone in the Capitol.

The very worst thing that Dean can think of about this experience is that John isn’t going to protect Sam from the violence. Dean knows it. He’d known it even while he was asking John to protect Sam. Sam’s going to have to watch his big brother die. John’s going to raise Dean onto the same pedestal as Mary and turn Sam into another Dean.

Dean’s entire life has been in vain. All he’s done—every punch, hit, fight, everything he’s ever done for Sam—it’s not going to matter.

And the worst part is that it’s going to be  _ because _ of him.

“I’m good with a gun,” Dean whispers finally. It’s a half-truth; he’s really good with everything, but Dean likes guns the most. They require more skill to handle them but are so much easier to use than other weapons.

Unfortunately, guns are contraband and everyone knows it. Besides, guns are rarely used in the Games because they’re seen to give tributes a death that’s not bloody enough. Because of that, almost nobody practices with guns. Why bother your time with weapons that most likely won’t be in the Games?

So that won’t help him. But maybe it’ll get Bobby off his case—it’s a specialized tool, isn’t it, and Bobby never asked for more than one weapon to be good at.

“And you’re strong,” Bobby says, appraising him. “You two will be a formidable pair. Just remember, Joanna,” he says, turning back to her, “never leave a knife in a corpse. It gives anyone that comes across it an easy weapon. And, if someone stumbles across their friend that you killed, the knife might be the clue that leads them to you. Nobody’s stronger than when they’re trying to avenge someone.”

Dean’s surprised Bobby’s still talking so coherently and offering such useful insight. He must have a crazy high tolerance for alcohol.

“Any other advice?” Dean asks.

Bobby barks out a laugh. “Don’t die.”

Jo looks at Dean, her eyes hard and jaw set. It’s a sure sign that she’s getting annoyed, which is never good for anyone.

“Very funny,” Dean says sarcastically.

“Reputations matter,” Bobby says suddenly. “Don’t make yourselves unlikeable. Nobody sponsors the unlikeable ones unless they’re pretty, and you two are too grubby and plain for the Capitol to ever think you’re pretty.”

Jo snorts softly. Dean almost wants to agree with her. In the Districts, they would actually be considered very attractive. The Capitol is just so bright and flashy nobody there can appreciate the beauty that Jo emits with her quiet confidence and natural, soft curls instead of harsh multicolored wigs.

Just like how the Capitol is desensitized, they’re also blind.

“Don’t resist your stylists,” Bobby advises. “No matter how pretty you think you are, they know what they’re doing. You have to be attractive for the Capitol, not yourselves or the districts.”

Earlier Dean had been thinking that he would go along with this whole ‘cooperate with the Capitol’ business in an attempt to save Sam. But as the old saying goes, easier said than done. The thought of letting someone like Castiel dress him, another judge him, and many decide whether he lives or dies depending on whether or not they find him interesting enough makes his blood boil.


	5. Aeviternal

The cameras weren’t lying about the Capitol’s grandeur. The spires of the shining city are gleaming white marble. Everywhere you look is polished white, which makes the people look even more striking, which Dean is sure was their goal. They stroll around with their bright colors, so different from the dull ones in the districts. Here people look like glittering insects. In the districts people could blend into the ground or the forest what with how stick-thin and dirty they all are. Even the mayors, even the Peacekeepers.

Dean’s lip curls. There are no Peacekeepers here. No Peacekeepers to whip people caught stealing food they need to survive. No Peacekeepers to trade people for goods they so desperately need. No Peacekeepers to catch an innocent Victor while she’s showing her sons the hydroelectric dam—

Dean turns away from the milling people quickly. Jo doesn’t, though, and just waves at them with a ginormous but fake smile on her face. Thankfully none of the insects can tell that the districts aren’t as fond of the Games as them, that it’s not so much an honor to participate as it is a punishment. “Why are you waving at them?”

“One of them might be rich,” Jo shrugs. “We need to suck up to them, don’t we?”

Dean’s more likely to punch someone, and Jo knows it, so she just sighs with resignation and turns away from the window. Her small hand lands on Dean’s bicep and he flinches.

“I’m going to protect you,” Jo says fiercely. “I know you think you’re going to protect me. But I’m going to protect you too. You’re going to come back to Sam. I swear it.”

Dean stares into his friend’s eyes. She’s a good actress. She might be acting.

God, not even ten minutes in the Capitol and Dean’s already doubting his best friend’s intentions. All the more reason to hate these pudgy, overdressed scumbags with painted faces. _ Insects _.

Everything is becoming more complicated by the second.

He tugs on the chain around his neck.

“I’m not…” Jo pushes up Dean’s left sleeve just enough to see the sausage-shaped bruises on his wrist. His hand twitches in hers but he doesn’t pull away, which is a big improvement since the first time Jo had found out about John’s training.

_ You always make it out to be a bigger deal than it is, _ Dean thinks. He can’t say it out loud. _ It’s not… it’s just the way things are. _

“If you think… I’m not going to let Sam be alone with John,” Jo finally blurts out. “I know you protect him. I can’t… I can’t break up a family.”

“And if you die what do you think will happen to Ellen?” Dean whispers. He wants to sound like he’s arguing, but the truth is that he’s going to get back to Sam.

With a jerk, he pulls his sleeve down and wrenches his hands out of Jo’s. “Our plan will work,” he says after a moment, pulling her into a hug that feels like his last. Jo wraps her arms around his waist and sighs.

“I hope so,” she finally mutters. “God, I hope so.”

“Well, you’ve come up with genius ideas before, haven’t you?” Dean asks, teasing a little bit. He can’t stand to leave things with Jo tense, not when she’s the only person he has here. Even under normal circumstances, he can’t stand to leave her mad at him—taking time to make up is a luxury only Capitol insects and Victors are able to afford. A luxury Victor’s children used to be able to afford. He’d never felt like a Victor’s child, though, not really, and so he never wasted his time being mad at people like Sam.

The train eases to a stop and Peacekeepers flank Dean and Jo as they exit the train. There are about ten people waiting for them just at the entrance of a building. For a moment Dean thinks that they can’t actually be real people, just looking at _ how _ ridiculous they look. Even though government officials wear odd, professional clothes, they’re nothing compared to the insects.

Dean can’t, for example, imagine Castiel’s body dyed green like the woman in front of him with a wig of neon blue corkscrew curls and lips a bright shade of orange. He can’t imagine any of the escorts like that; their outfits are all so similar they’re impossible to differentiate from. Either that or they’re the same outfits every day, which Dean thinks might be a little too crazy, even for the Capitol.

“Tributes!” a man with long fake eyelashes with stones glued onto the end beams at them. “Dean Winchester, it’s an honor. And Joanna Harvelle, your father is a legend. His Games were, in fact, my favorite, even if they were a little before my time.” He smiles, revealing white teeth. One of them has a smudge of his purple lipstick on them.

Dean glances at Jo. She looks a bit sick, but whether it be from the man’s garish outfit or comments he’s not sure.

“Well, follow us,” another woman says with her weird Capitol accent that always rises up at the end like she’s asking a question. “We need to get you all ready for your stylists!”

The glances Dean and Jo exchange are more panicked than excited, but either their prep teams don’t notice or they notice but don’t care.

“Dean, you’re in here!” a woman with golden tattoos all over her face squeaks, opening up the door to what looks like a torture room. “Not that you’ll have much to improve upon.” The appraising look she gives Dean has him both uncomfortable and proud. Obviously he’s still attractive, even here in the Capitol, but does he really want someone probably twice his age thinking he’s attractive?

He settles by grimacing at her and walking through the door. Who knows what his stylist looks like? Most of the ones they interview on TV are dyed and surgically altered to the point of being monstrous. If that’s their sense of style… Dean shudders to think of what he’ll look like once he’s finished.

* * *

It takes almost three hours until Dean’s prep team deems him suitable to be presented to his stylist. Those three hours were, to put it lightly, torture. They’d cut Dean’s hair, shaved his face roughly, and pulled hair out of places he hadn’t even known it was growing in (seriously, though, who cares if he’s got hair in his nose?). The one things they hadn’t touched were the bruises on his wrists and his amulet, but Dean’s face still gets hotter every time he feels someone’s eyes on the imprints. And he’d thrown a right bitch fit in order to keep that amulet on, but he’s _ going to keep the amulet on. _

Dean touches his tender nose gingerly. “There, now you look like a human being!” the one with purple lipstick says brightly. He slaps Dean’s hand away. “Let’s call Charlie!”

“Charlie!” the rest of the prep team starts to yell, darting out of the room, and Dean shifts nervously on the table he’s sitting on. He doesn’t like being naked, especially when someone that’s a complete stranger is about to come examine him like he’s meat getting ready to be served.

Yep, going along with the Capitol’s charade is going to be a lot harder than he’d anticipated.

No matter. Dean’s going to get back to Sam, no matter what it takes.

The door creaks open and a redheaded girl with bangs peeks her head inside. “Knock knock.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. This isn’t exactly what he’d pictured. This person that he assumes to be ‘Charlie’ is, first of all, a girl. Second, her hair is obviously real and not style. Her face is makeup free and clothes not garish like the rest of the insect’s.

Somehow she’s more beautiful than anyone else in the Capitol, except maybe Jo. They’re equal, really, because they’re _ normal _.

“Hi, Dean,” Charlie continues. “I’m your stylist, Charlie.” She has a faint lisp in her voice. It’s so small it wouldn’t be noticeable if not for the way it impedes the Capitol’s accent. _ She doesn’t have one _.

“Hello,” Dean grunts. He can’t afford to piss off his stylist; the Games are hardly a beauty pageant, but more attractive victors always seem to get more sponsors. Dean can’t afford to be a walking fashion catastrophe, not when getting back to Sam is on the line.

“Hmm…” Charlie paces around his body, her eyes raking up and down. Dean has to resist the urge to cover himself with his hand. “I have to ask… are those bruises or makeup?”

Dean’s head snaps up. Why would someone bother to create bruises with makeup? That’s ridiculous! Bruises aren’t attractive; all they do is attract weird stares and sympathetic glances. It makes his skin crawl. It’s why he wears long sleeves whenever he’s fought with John.

“All right,” Charlie says, raising her arms. “We’ll have to cover those up, I suppose. We can’t have you looking weak.”

“Are you new?” Dean asks desperately. He wants so badly to hide his wrists, but with what? The extra movement will just draw attention to them, anyways.

Charlie nods, smiling gently. “It’s my first year with the Games. I wanted to be a Gamekeeper, but they wanted me here.”

All of Dean’s walls come flying up. Charlie wanted to be a Gamekeeper, which means she wanted to brainstorm different ways to brutally murder children. She’s the same as the rest of the insects. Her outsides just don’t match her insides yet.

“Why don’t you put on your robe and we can have a chat?” she invites, not noticing the abrupt change in Dean’s posture. He accepts the opportunity to be covered gratefully and pulls it on before following Charlie through a door she pulls open. It looks to be a sitting room they find themselves in.

Charlie settles down onto one of the two red couches in the room and stares out the wall-length window for a moment that displays another beautiful view of the Capitol. All the luxury in the world, condensed into one measly city.

As soon as Dean sits across from her, she presses a button and the table separating them splits apart. A small platform rises up in the middle, displaying another elaborate meal that will taste like dirt in Dean’s mouth when he thinks of Sam and the districts. As much as the rolls shaped like flowers are pretty, and the chicken cooked into a creamy sauce smells fantastic, Dean can’t help but think of what Sam would say if he saw the food. He’d love it, wouldn’t he?

For the first time Dean doesn’t understand John’s decision not to mentor any tributes. Sam and Dean would have been able to visit the Capitol. They would have been able to eat this fancy food together, laugh at these weird people together, and marvel at the view together.

Instead, Sam’s stuck eating grainy food in a house that reeks of their mother’s ghost, and Dean’s alone in a world of insects he can’t step on.

“How despicable we must seem to you,” Charlie says after a moment. She’d obviously been watching Dean’s face as it contorted, looking around at all the elegance people only get to experience for a few days a year.

He’d bet that these rooms go unused except for just before the Games, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is how Dean needs to control his expressions. If the Capitol finds out about his revulsion for them, there’s no way he’ll get sponsors.

Even if he does find them despicable.

“No matter for that now,” Charlie says breezily.

_ Now _.

“My partner, Kara, is the stylist for your friend Joanna. At the moment we’re deciding what complementary costumes we wish to create.”

In the opening ceremonies, tributes are supposed to wear outfits that represent their districts, ie agriculture for District 11 or fishing for District 4. District 5’s principal industry is power and electricity that mostly comes from a hydroelectric dam. More often than not District 5 tributes are dressed in a scanty little water-like outfit or a worker outfit. It’s practically sicking, and always predictable.

On the bright side, at least Dean’s not District 12. Not even he and Jo could pull off those miner’s outfits.

“So I’ll be in a worker’s outfit?” Dean asks. He hopes it’s not too scanty. He would probably die of embarrassment if Sam ever saw him in something like that.

Not that he’ll live long enough for Sam to ever tease him if he does wear an indecent outfit, or even go butt-naked. It’s Dean’s last hurrah, so to speak, but he refuses to go out without some semblance of pride.

“No,” Charlie says after a pause. “That’s quite overdone, isn’t it?”

Dean’s going naked for sure. If this was any other situation, he might make a joke about how his jewels might encourage sponsors to support him, but he can’t stomach the thought of people he doesn’t know _ actually _ seeing his bare… well, everything.

“We’re not going to focus on the work,” Charlie continues. “We’re going to focus on the water. And what it does.”

_ God, _ Dean groans internally, _ we’re going to be dressed in see-through ponchos and nothing else. _

“You know what we use the water for?” Charlie grins, tilting her head. “Power. You’re not afraid of a little electricity, are you, Dean?”

She sees his expression and grins.

* * *

Just under five hours later, Dean is dressed in either the most sensational or deadliest outfit the opening ceremonies has ever seen. Or maybe they have. Dean’s just sure that he’s never seen an outfit like this in all the Games he’s ever seen.

He’s dressed in a black unitard that’s almost as bad as being buck-naked. _ Almost _. He was allowed undergarments that won’t crease under the fabric but will prevent him from being completely exposed. Unfortunately, that meant he wasn’t able to wear the amulet. Charlie isn’t as easily bendable as Dean’s prep team and so Bobby promised to hold onto the necklace and slipped it into his pocket. Dean still isn’t sure if he should be worried about the old Victor’s wording.

Shiny black boots come up to Dean’s knees and a headpiece complete the outfit. He looks like a shadow, or a black deer with odd antlers, and _ God _, this is almost worse than being naked. What will John and Sam think when they see him wearing this on the television screen?

That’s not the interesting part of the costume, though. The headpiece Charlie had put on Dean’s head she assures him is completely safe, but he’s not so sure. Just before they enter the streets, Charlie intends to turn on the headpiece, which is actually a conductor for electricity. Sparks will fall from Dean’s head no matter what movement he makes. The same goes for the boots he’s wearing; with every movement a spark will erupt from the heels.

He’s going to be a walking ball of danger. All he hopes is that he and Jo don’t burn each other.

“You are going to be unforgettable,” Charlie says dreamily. “Dean Winchester, the boy who would burn you if touched. You’ll look like an angel.”

The thought crosses Dean’s mind that Charlie’s relatively normal air masks a complete madwoman. It’s certainly an unorthodox approach in the Capitol. She could win the Games with that attitude.

Jo enters the room wearing the same outfit, much to Dean’s relief. He doesn’t know what he would do if he was standing next to a naked-but-for-a-poncho Jo. The contrast would be horrific, even to the district viewers.

The prep teams whisk the tributes down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, where their chariot pulled by four completely white horses awaits. The animals don’t skitter when the chatty prep team floods into the room with them. It’s impressive; Dean’s seen tame animals more skittish than these horses.

“So what do you think?” Jo asks, leaning into Dean’s shoulder to mutter without being overhead. She keeps a fake smile on her face as people congratulate them.

“I’ll rip yours off if you do mine,” Dean replies. “If it doesn’t go as planned.”

“Kara said she’s tried it before,” Jo says, but her tone is obviously uncertain. “What do you think Bobby will think?”

The smile on Dean’s face wavers. “What does it matter?” He’s still bitter that their escort is an old drunk hermit, but he supposes that was set up by the Capitol as well. He and Jo are just not supposed to survive these Games.

The opening music of the ceremonies begins and Jo jumps. The massive sliding doors Dean had been trying to ignore slide open, revealing crowd-lined streets of glittering insects.

District 1’s chariot goes first, obviously. Their white horses have been spray-painted gold and draped with glittering tunics that make them blend right in with the Capitol. Out of all the districts, District 1 is the closest one to the Capitol. They’re a fan favorite, which is obvious by the deafening cheer that greets this year’s tributes.

All too soon, the next three chariots roll out of the glorified stable. Exchanging glances filled with trepidation, Dean and Jo reach up simultaneously and flip the switch on their headpieces. Immediately the sound of crackling electricity fills Dean’s ears. He doesn’t know what he looks like, but he can see Jo, and the effect is stunning. The two-pronged headpiece spits sparks (Charlie had sworn they were synthetic and wouldn’t burn if they landed on Dean).

Dean tears his eyes away from Jo and looks to the crowd, where a hush has fallen over the crowds. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing, but his adrenaline is rushing too hard, heart beating too fast and blood rushing in his ears, that he simply doesn’t care.

Jo’s fingers wrap around his and she lifts their joined hands into the air, and as if they are conductors and the crowd is their orchestra, the cheers’ volume swells.


	6. Hiraeth

Castiel is the first one to congratulate Dean and Jo on their performance in the ceremony. He does it while escorting them to the Training Center by saying, “Holding hands was a nice touch.”

Dean tries to ignore him by focusing on the Training Center while adjusting his necklace back on his neck; it’d felt bare without the jewelry. It’s a building designed especially for the tributes and their teams. Each district has their own floor, and they get to said floor by using a crystal elevator. Dean’s mouth goes dry when he steps onto the clear floor. It looks a little too much like there’s nothing supporting him when he looks down, so he just stares up at the ceiling and tries not to wet his pants as the elevator zooms upwards.

He’s ridden on the Justice Building elevator twice. Once, when he was accepting the award for his mother’s death, and just yesterday when he’d gone to the room where he’d said goodbye to Sam, John, and Ellen. That elevator was small and slow and, while it might have smelled of mold, it was not at all as dangerous as a rocket elevator made of crystal.

When the elevator makes it to the fifth floor, Jo’s eyes are sparkling and Dean can tell she’s itching to ask Castiel if she can ride it again. If she does, Dean might vomit; nerves about the opening ceremony, plus the jealous glares the other tributes had sent them after the ceremony, plus this nerve-wracking experience in this elevator, equals a not happy stomach.

Dean is surprised that Castiel’s duties did not end at the train station, and it’s not a happy surprise to be certain. Apparently, Castiel and Bobby will be overseeing him and Jo right up until the moment they enter the arena.  _ Lucky us, right? _ Dean thinks bitterly, glaring at the hem of Castiel’s trenchcoat as the escort shows them around their floor. An entire floor dedicated to about four people.

According to Castiel, he and Jo definitely made an impression during the ceremony. It’s not every day the insects see living wires shedding electricity, after all. Castiel implies that everyone who’s anyone is interested in them. He rambles—well,  _ rambles _ is a bad word for it, but really the only other word Dean can think of is  _ lectures _ —them about the politics about chatting up two nobody-Victor’s children from District 5, which isn’t an underdog district or a Career district. Dean and Jo are entirely common—well,  _ were _ entirely common; Dean can’t imagine Charlie and Kara’s stunt has kept them in the limelight.

At one point Jo leans over and whispers to Dean that the District 12 tributes hadn’t escaped the good ol’ ‘naked with coal dust on their bodies’ schtick and it’s all he can do not to snort and cut Castiel off mid-sentence.

Jo drinks in all the information, but Dean’s eyes are on the hem of that damn trenchcoat. He can’t figure out what’s hidden underneath the damn coat (and if Sam were here, he’d make a joke about how Dean must be fantasizing about Castiel naked, which isn’t the case). Dean just can’t figure out why Castiel performs his duties so diligently and yet leaves during conversations that could be used to incriminate people not loyal to the Capitol. He doesn’t wear the frivolous clothes of the Capitol and his voice doesn’t bear their accent; it’s too deep and rough. Yes, some of the escorts wear business clothes, but some don’t. All but Castiel have the Capitol accent, however, and all but Castiel wear at least some semblance of makeup to make themselves stand out.

Castiel’s the only one that stands out, though, by  _ not _ doing any of that stuff. Dean can't help but wonder if that's on purpose. Or maybe Castiel is just clueless. That would certainly explain everything else he's done.

“Here are your quarters, Dean,” Castiel instructs. He beckons Dean through a door and into a chamber of rooms that are plush, like the train’s car, but covered with electronic-looking buttons. The windows can zoom into different places in the city. If you ask for food, it’ll appear before you. The closet has more outfits than Dean could wear in his entire life, even if he only wore them once each. Just in the shower there is a panel with over a hundred different options for your optimizable experience.

Dean almost feels more dirty when he gets out of the shower and onto the mat that turns on heaters that blow-dry his whole body. This sort of technology would seem like a god-send to anyone in his district—any district, really—and here the rooms are, being used for about a week each year.

Sam would  _ love _ this tech, Dean realizes, and that’s his biggest problem with the whole situation: Sam would love to be where Dean is, because he’s been suffering his whole life. Stuffed into a small house when he could have a bigger one, sharing a bed with Dean even though he could have his own… Sam’s never gotten what he deserves. He deserves all this and more, and Dean will be damned before he can’t give it to him.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel calls, knocking on the door, and Dean jumps. “It’s time for dinner.”

Good. Dean’s starving. Then again, Sam probably is too. Maybe John has already started to train the younger brother in the advent of losing Dean. Maybe John has already given up on Dean coming back.

Dean  _ will _ .

He opens up the door to see Castiel’s electric-blue eyes staring him down.  _ God, Castiel is such a weird name, _ Dean thinks mentally.  _ Dude’s gotta get a nickname. _ Not that Dean will give him one. Giving nicknames is for friends.

Jo, Charlie, and Kara are standing on a balcony that overlooks the Capitol when Dean enters the dining room with Cas. He’s grateful they’re there; it was their ingenious costumes that made him and Jo stand out amongst the tributes. Even when the sun started to set and the other costumes fell into shadow, their headpieces were still shedding sparks and drawing the eyes of everyone surveying the ceremony, including those in the district. Dean had been watching the screens and he and Jo had gotten far more than their fair share of airtime, mostly because they were the only things distinguishable after a while.

“Now no matter what happens,” Kara says dreamily without prompt, “you’ll be remembered. We wanted to make you memorable, and we did better. We made you unforgettable.”

Dean doesn’t ask what that’s supposed to mean; Kara must be as crazy as Charlie. He just accepts the glass of wine offered to him and almost chokes on the dry liquid. Since when can liquid be  _ dry? _ The Capitol keeps getting weirder.

Bobby enters the room, his head looking weirdly small without his hat on, but he’s wearing a suit instead of the ratty clothes he normally sports. It looks just as uncomfortable on him as his suit had felt on Dean. He much prefers the button-up shirt Castiel had called a flannel to any suit or work shirt he’s ever worn before.

The conversation throughout the dinner is frustratingly domestic. Jo doesn’t seem to mind, but Dean can’t stop fidgeting in his seat. One can only talk about the opening ceremony so much, and besides, surviving the Games is a bit more pressing at the moment.

Again, the food is indecently good: flavoured, too plentiful, and served by silent servants.

Dean can’t help the feeling that floods through him as he thinks about Sam. He misses him so much whenever he thinks about how much Sam would like this, but the fact that Sam  _ would _ enjoy this… Sam isn’t really the person Dean wants him to be. Maybe he never was.

He distracts himself from that thought and shovels another piece of roast beef into his mouth. “Hey,” he says suddenly to a silent servant with brown hair, “What’s your favorite thing to eat here?”

To his confusion, the servant’s eyes widen with fear and she backs away, shaking her head minutely.

Dean looks around when he realizes silence has fallen over the table. Castiel is staring at Dean, his head cocked again, and Bobby’s lip is curled at the servant. “She can’t respond, boy,” he finally says, stabbing his meat with his fork. “That’s an Avox. A traitor. They cut out her tongue.”

Jo turns as green as Dean feels.

When another silent servant tries to give him a slice of cake, Dean waves her away. He ate too much roast beef, maybe, or maybe he can’t bear the thought of enjoying this experience in any way when Sam’s not here, when Dean’s about to leave Sam like Sam thinks Mary left their family. Not when he knows the brutality behind the servant’s closed mouth. He can’t enjoy anything that has to do with this place.

“Dean?” Jo asks softly. Dean looks up to see Jo holding her hand out to him. “Come on. Let’s watch the recap of the ceremony.”

_ What’s the point? _ Dean wants to ask.  _ We lived through it. _ He can’t say that, though; the effort of talking is suddenly too much for him to bear. So he just takes Jo’s hand and lets her pretend she’s the one pulling him up. The one supporting him.

Dean hasn’t had anyone to lean on since he was four years old. Now, as he’s staring the pale, gaunt figure of Death right in the face, how can he lean on Jo when she’s staring down the same figure? How can he just let someone hook their arms around his shoulders and help carry Sam?

The thought terrifies him, but the intoxicating feeling that rushes through him when Jo wraps her arm around his shoulders isn’t terrifying at all. He’s helping her a bit too. Give-and-take is another thing he’s never experienced.

Dean doesn’t watch the ceremony. For some reason, he can’t take his eyes off of Castiel’s face. His stupid escort, who compliments them for what is essentially another act of rebellion, who doesn’t look down on Dean and Jo for being nobody Victor’s children. Castiel, the Capitol’s escort, who leaves when people are talking about contraband, who reportedly is trying as hard as he can to talk up Jo and Dean to wealthy could-be sponsors. Castiel, who stands out from his peers in a way that he shouldn’t.

Dean’s suddenly struck with the thought that maybe, just maybe, Castiel is just as much a rebel as John is. Maybe he’s doing it in a different way, but that would explain his odd behavior.

Does that mean… is there a way Dean could trust him?

Immediately he shakes that thought away. Dean isn’t a rebel; John is, and Dean’s going to make him stop when he survives the Games. Castiel makes his own choices and those choices have nothing to do with Dean.

With a degree of difficulty, Dean focuses on Jo’s face instead.

* * *

Sam puts his sleeve over his mouth to muffle the sound of his heavy, fast breathing. He’d woken up in an empty bed and, though he’d gone to sleep knowing that Dean wasn’t there, the hazy sleep-induced confusion had made him forget that, if only for just a moment. He’s still not sure how he managed to fall asleep so quickly, but maybe seeing Dean on the screen in the opening ceremony had made him feel closer than he is.

At first Sam had just lain on the bed, eyes wide open and staring unseeingly at the ceiling swathed in shadows. Dean was on  _ fire _ . Dean had been shedding sparks. He’d been holding Jo’s hand while the other tributes had been standing stiffly apart from each other. Sam knows what that means; he’s going to protect Jo just like he’s protecting Sam.

He’d looked like an angel, even though the sparks were coming from a headpiece that was spiked like horns. Sam’s guardian angel.

What Sam wouldn’t have given to see it on purpose.

Tears had suddenly welled up in Sam’s eyes and he blinked them away furiously, because why would he be crying? Dean’s protecting him and Dean said he would be back. Dean doesn’t lie, ergo Dean will be back.

Sam had sat up in his bed, ready to crawl into John’s to conserve body heat. Sometimes he does it to hurt Dean’s feelings on purpose, and other times he does it because John always gets more blankets on his bed than Dean does.

He’d managed to creep all the way to John’s bed before realizing that John wasn’t in his bed.

Immediately fear had flooded Sam. Is John gone? Is John drinking?

Is Sam going to find John hanging side-by-side with the memory of his long-dead wife? Is John going to be as selfish as Mary and leave him and Dean too?

The murmur of low voices had stopped Sam from panicking and he’d turned towards the door of the bedroom. Light flooded under the door’s crack, something Sam berated himself for not noticing sooner, and with a rapidly increasing heart rate, he’d snuck to the door to listen to the voices.

This has happened before; not often, but not never either. Every time it did happen Dean would command Sam to come back to bed and sleep, a tinge of fear in his voice like he knew something Sam didn’t. And Sam would always bug him about what John was doing, and Dean would always keep his lips tightly closed, much to the younger brother’s frustration.

Now there’s no Dean to scold him, though Sam can’t help but glance over his shoulder every few seconds as if Dean will suddenly appear in the bed and sit up. Sam’s breaking rules that have never even been said, but he’d love nothing more than for Dean to scold him.

_ Maybe, _ Sam thinks, knowing it’s impossible but not really caring,  _ maybe Dean will sense that I’m listening to what Dad does in the night and he’ll come from the Capitol to yell at me. _

John is speaking right now. Sam presses his ear to the door. He can barely make out the words, “Capitol… punishment… act quickly…”

Heavy boots clunk on the ground and a new voice chimes in, saying, “Your son… Games… wait…”

Sam leans heavier on the door, his hands coming up to grab the door handle for support. He can still barely hear what’s going on.

Another unfamiliar voice says something about Dean dying. Sam gasps, shock at the callous statement of the impossible making his hands slip.

The handle turns, the door opens, and Sam falls onto the ground on hands and knees. All conversation ends abruptly, and Sam looks up slowly through the curtain of hair that had fallen into his eyes.

Everyone’s staring at him.

He flushes.

“Sam, what are you doing up?” John asks, surprise evident in his voice. He has to know that Sam wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, right? He has to know about Sam’s nightmares… he has to, right? Dean does.

“Dean’s not gonna die,” Sam says furiously, standing up. He surveys the odd assortment of people in his dining room: there’s John, with a two day’s old beard, and Ellen, with her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Apart from that, there are maybe seven other adults, both Victor and lucky enough to not have been reaped. Surprisingly, though, there’s at least five Peacekeepers, all with their masks off. With a bit of shock Sam recognizes the stars on the sleeves of two of the Keepers. He knows what they mean, and he knows what the Peacekeeper’s names are.

The Head Peacekeeper, Azazel, and his second-in-command, Crowley, are in Sam’s dining room in the middle of the night.

Azazel turns a sickening grin on Sam and Sam almost shudders. He knows Dean hates Azazel. Maybe it has something to do with his weirdly golden eyes. The one time Sam had pestered Dean enough to say anything, Dean had just muttered shortly that Azazel was a sick bastard and ‘the nerve of him to even  _ look _ at them, considering  _ what he did _ ’.

Sam doesn’t know what it is Dean means, but it had to be bad. Dean doesn’t hate people easily.

And then Crowley. He’s a far cry different from Azazel, that’s for certain, and even though Dean seems to hate most Peacekeepers he seems to appreciate Crowley. He’s the only Peacekeeper Sam’s only seen without his mask on before. He sometimes brings their food deliveries and, on good days, slips Sam extra food to give to Dean. He calls Dean ‘Squirrel’ and Sam ‘Moose’ because he’s got gangly limbs, apparently.

“Well, we all certainly hope so,” a blonde girl says sharply. She might be trying to comfort Sam, but he doesn’t get the feeling she cares about Dean one way or the other. “John—”

“It’s all right,” John interrupts, waving a hand. “Sam, come here.”

Sam obeys and trods over to his imperious father, who pats his lap and hoists Sam up to sit on it. Sam hasn’t sat in John’s lap in a long, long time.

“Sam, you know Ellen,” John says. Sam nods at her and Ellen manages a smile back. “The two girl Peacekeepers over there are Ruby and Meg.” He points at them. It’s the sharp blonde girl with bangs and a girl with wavy dark hair and they both look to be in their mid-twenties. Sam waves a bit shyly and the sharp blonde girl merely raises an eyebrow but the dark-haired Meg waves back limply. Her lip is curled and she’s obviously not pleased about the interruption.

“That’s our Head Peacekeeper, Azazel, and his second, Crowley,” John continues. When Sam makes eye contact with Azazel, he shivers. The golden-eyed man looks hungry. “The other Peacekeeper is named Lucifer.”

The last Peacekeeper looks to be about John’s age. He’s blonde and has scruff all over his face. He reminds Sam sort of a pitbull, both by the shape of his face and the look in his eyes.

John points at each adult as he introduces, “Over there is Jody Mills, Dorothy Baum, Marcus Wallace—”

“Mr. Wallace!” Sam cries out. He can’t believe he hadn’t recognized Mr. Wallace sooner. He’s Sam’s maths teacher.

Mr. Wallace inclines his head at Sam, his expression grave and completely unlike the jovial one he wears at school. “Hello, Sam.”

“And Lillian O’Grady, Harry Spangler, and Ed Zeddmore.” John says the last two names with a hint of disgust, and Sam doesn’t blame him; he can tell the look of someone who’s never handled a gun in their life.

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Harry Spangler says in a curiously high voice. Ed, who sports a thick beard not unlike Bobby Singer’s, echoes the sentiment.

Sam nods at them.

“Sammy,” John starts, not seeing Sam’s wince—the nickname only sounds good when Dean says it— “This here is a group of people you can trust. We’re going to overthrow the Capitol. We’re going to stop the Games.”


	7. Erumpent

Dean wakes up with a sour taste in his mouth and a headache. The sheets on his bed are tangled around his legs. He must have been tossing in the night. He doesn’t do it often, he knows, because whenever he does Sam is always in John’s bed when he wakes up. Plus, Sam will always complain for the rest of the day.

Dean has a faint inkling of what was making him so restless; the dream is already slipping away from him but he remembers the toss of blond curls, screaming, black masks, hands scrabbling at him, his own panting breaths as he carried his brother out of the fray, and most importantly, golden eyes.

Dean takes a deep breath to soothe his racing heart. He’s here, in the Capitol, not by the dam, and his mother’s been dead for years. She’s not dying right now. Sam is okay, he’s alive, and Dean’s keeping him that way. Azazel isn’t anywhere near Dean and he knows John won’t let him near Sam.

Though dawn hasn’t yet broken over the Capitol, he’s not going to get back to sleep, he knows, so he hops into the shower. He messes with the controls for a little bit, trying to have a little fun with it. At one point the water is scalding, the next second it’s freezing, and another time the water turns off and he’s just drenched with lemony foam. It takes a while until Dean finally gets a hold of the shower’s controls.

An outfit has been set out at the forefront of Dean’s closet by the time he gets dried off. Black pants that are still too tight for his liking, a green flannel—Dean makes a mental note to thank Charlie for noticing what he’d picked out from the closet—and soft leather shoes. This is the first time since the reaping that Dean feels even a little bit like himself, a little more grounded. No more fancy suits, no more sparking headpieces or black unitards. Just pants, shoes, and a type of shirt that is comfortable but still expensive that he can hide his amulet with.

Nobody is at the table when he gets downstairs save for an Avox standing by the buffet table. He nods when Dean asks if he can start to eat so Dean starts to pile food onto his plate. He wants to get the sour taste out of his mouth, but the staring Avox makes him uncomfortable. He tries to take his mind off the mutilated servant, but then his mind wanders to his brother and father.

Are they all right? Surely Sam is awake by now; he has to get to school soon. And John must be getting ready to get to work. They’re probably eating their breakfast of mush. Are they thinking about Dean? Did they feel reassured after his appearance during the ceremony, seeing him with Jo and flaming, determined, or did they see the rest of the tributes and feel terrified because they knew only one could survive?

After Dean’s third plate of food— _ eat whenever you can because you never know when you’ll get your next meal _ —Bobby and Jo come into the room, bid him good morning, and each fill up a plate before sitting down next to Dean. Jo is wearing the exact same outfit as Dean, he notices, and wonders with some trepidation what Kara and Charlie are trying to do. Make Dean and Jo indistinguishable from the other so they’re more forgettable? Or present them as a unified team?

If it was anyone else, Dean might protest, but Charlie had obviously known what she was doing yesterday. She knows more about the Capitol than he ever will.

“So,” Bobby says while putting a sausage in his mouth, “your choice. Do you want me to coach you both together or separate?”

Without hesitation, Jo and Dean say at the same time, “Together.”

Bobby raises one surprised eyebrow and smirks. “All right,” he drawls. He unclasps a flask he carries at his hip and takes a long drag out of the obviously alcoholic drink. He may be acting responsible right now, but there’s a reason he’s also thought of as the town drunk in District 5.

Dean puts down the roll he’d been picking apart, suddenly not hungry. He’s nervous about training. There will be boys taller and stronger than him and girls that can use knives like extra appendages of themselves. Besides, it’s a perfect opportunity to spot people’s weaknesses and strengths.

The last day will be the most nerve-wracking, though. There will be a period for each tribute to perform privately in front of the Gamemakers.

“So I know you’re good with a knife, missy,” Bobby says. “And Dean here is good with a gun. What else can you do, boy?”

Dean shrugs, glancing at the Avoxs around them.

“Uh, Dean?” Jo faux-whispers. “They can’t speak. I think we’re fine.”

A flush works its way up Dean’s face. “Of course. Well, I’m good with… pretty much everything, I guess?” He winces. “Knives, definitely.”

“He’s really strong, too,” Jo says suddenly.

Dean rushes, “And Jo’s fast. But what can I do? It’s not like anybody’s gonna stand still long enough for me to punch ‘em.”

“And if someone lands a punch on me, I’ll be done for!” Jo bursts out. “Plus, you’re plenty fast enough to take someone down—get yourself a knife and you’ll be able to stand a chance!”

Dean can’t think of a comeback for that and so decides to sit back in his chair, fold his arms over his chest, and pout. It’s true. He spars with his father often, and with Sam, too, but he takes it easy on his little brother. He knows how to kill; he’s killed stray animals before at his father’s insistence. Killing in the Games won’t even be that hard as long as he pretends they’re animals.

Or maybe he won’t even need to pretend. Dean  _ is _ going to get home. He just  _ is _ . If that involves killing people… he pictures slitting the throat of that hobbled boy, Kubrick, if he was the only thing standing in Dean’s way of getting back to Sam, and he does it. In his mind’s eye, he feels the knife slide through the tender flesh and he just stands up, not wanting to watch the death happen, but he’d be able to do it.

“Well, Dean, I can’t guarantee there’ll be a gun in the arena,” Bobby says after a long moment. “But show them that skill during the private session with the Gamemakers. Until then, keep it under wraps. Same goes for you, Jo. Go to the training and learn something new, like making traps or tying knots.”

Bobby hears the small snort from Jo and his lips curl up. “Or if you already know how to do that, pretend you don’t. Or just do something new!” He throws his hands up with faux-exasperation. “I’m trying to help you both here. Just… make sure they underestimate you.”

Jo and Dean look at each other and shrug.

“One last thing,” Bobby says, standing up, “make sure you two stay as close to each other as possible.”

“Was already planning on it,” Dean says instinctually, nodding. Jo’s hand finds his and he squeezes her fingers. It’s a friendly gesture, nothing more, but it fills him with more comfort than he could have thought possible.

“Castiel will escort you at ten,” Bobby says, clearly dismissing them as he transfers his gaze to his food. “Make sure you’re ready.”

Dean checks his watch. It’s nearly ten already, so he and Jo have just enough time to rush up to their rooms to brush their teeth before they meet Castiel at the elevator. He’s still wearing the infuriating trenchcoat.

The actual training rooms are below ground level. In the crystal elevator, the ride is less than a minute, but Dean keeps his eyes clenched shut the whole time as he falls multiple stories down. He’s never going to ride an elevator ever again in his life, if he can help it.

When the doors open, a few people are honest enough to not pretend they don’t look at Dean and Jo. They’re the last ones here. All the other tributes are gathered in a tense circle with a cloth square pinned to their shirts that displays their district numbers.

Dean ignores the questioning glances and notes two things: one, that he and Jo are the only two dressed alike; and two, that the room is an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and obstacle courses. To Dean’s surprise, everything in the training room… he can do it all. Maybe the courses he trained on in District 5 weren’t as fancy as the one in this room, but the intent is similar. Obviously John was drawing inspiration from his memories of the Training Center.

Dean allows his eyes to wander as the head instructor, a buff man named Gadreel, steps up to instruct everyone about the training schedule. To his surprise, now that everyone’s standing on even ground, in regular clothes, there’s not a lot of tributes taller than Dean. Most of them are skinny, but not skinny like Jo— _ skinny _ skinny, the skinny you get when you don’t eat well your whole life. Dean would look like that if not for John. The muscles Dean’s gotten from training prevents him from looking like he doesn’t eat regularly.

Of course, the exceptions are the Career tributes. They are bigger than Dean, more muscled, obviously healthier with more meals than Dean’s ever been able to have. Of course, it’s technically against the rules to train before getting to the Capitol, but everyone does it. The Careers are just privileged enough to be able to do it the most without getting in trouble, which means that every year it’s a Career that’s a winner.

All Dean can see in their eyes is contempt and jealousy as they look at him and Jo. They’re not jealous of  _ them _ , per se, but rather their stylists. Any confidence he’d had about their fantastic entrance yesterday trickles out of his bones.

Gadreel releases the tributes and the Careers flock to the deadliest weapons in the room. They handle them with ease.

Dean could handle them with ease as well. Nobody knows that, though, and nobody expects him to be able to. He can use that to his advantage—people underestimating him and the Career’s arrogance. Bobby had said to make sure they underestimate him, after all.

Dean is just thinking it’s a good thing Jo is a fast runner when she nudges his arm. “Where do you want to go first?”

Dean looks around the gymnasium, at all these weapons he knows how to use but shouldn’t. At the Careers handling them, clearly trying to intimidate the competition, at the tributes from the poorer Districts who are learning how to use an axe or the like for the first time. “Traps?” he suggests.

The expert for that station seems pleased to see them and Dean gets the feeling it’s not the most popular station for tributes to visit. He teaches Dean and Jo a simple trap that will leave a competitor dangling by a leg from a tree (Dean tries not to think about slitting the throat of someone hanging upside down from a tree, but he can’t stop himself). Once they’ve mastered that, they move on to camouflage. Jo seems to be childishly amused by this station and, though she doesn’t manage to produce an accurate camouflage, she has fun mixing the mud, clay, and berry juices around her pale skin.

“Mom wanted me to paint,” she says after a while.

“Mmm,” Dean hums, his eyes on the male District 2 tribute throw a spear at a dummy from fifteen feet away and hit it dead in the chest.

“She didn’t want me to get caught up in your training, but I insisted,” Jo continues. “I guess it’s a good thing I did, right?”

Dean wishes she’d never needed the skills she’d gained on the few days she’d spent with Dean and John.

Jo finally realizes he’s not listening, too preoccupied with watching the competition. “Do you want to move on?” She lays a hand on Dean’s arm and he blinks, coming back to himself.

“Sure,” he croaks.

They alternate through the training for the rest of the day. Jo learns everything from starting fires to making shelter. Dean doesn’t throw any knives for fear of drawing attention to his good aim, but he still twirls them around his fingers. Maybe even that is too dangerous an act, considering the eyes that sometimes still his hand mid-spin, but he can’t help himself.

Despite Bobby’s instructions not to excel at anything, though, Jo decides she’s going to learn about all the edible plants. Her memory must be fantastic because it only takes her three tries to get a perfect score. While Dean watches her, all he can focus on is the picture of nightlock in the corner of the screen.

“Go fight someone,” Jo murmurs, kicking at him gently without taking her eyes off the screen. “Get some practice at hand-to-hand combat.”

Dean’s tempted, but he knows he’ll stand out if he does. The wrestling he’s participated in at his school, as well as his training with John… well, Dean doesn’t like to brag or make claims he can’t back up, but he would win.

“Come on up, tribute,” a training assistant invites cheerily, obviously having been eavesdropping on them. Dean eyes the man. He looks about ten years older than Dean but still fit. Dean’s glad the training people at least look normal. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he punched someone and his hand came back green, or if he ripped off someone’s wig.

“Go on,” Jo goads. Dean rolls his eyes but relents and hops onto the sparring platform. He looks up and right into the eyes of a male Gamemaker with blonde hair and a smirk permanently etched onto his face. The Gamemakers had arrived just a little while ago, all in deep purple robes, but Dean was sure he was flying under the radar. Why is the Gamemaker looking at him, then? Especially like…  _ that _ ?

Still maintaining eye contact with Dean, the Gamemaker pops a grape into his mouth and winks. Dean looks away from him, flushing at forgetting himself and why he’s here. He can’t catch the attention of any Gamemakers.

As the training assistant settles into a fighting stance, Dean glances over his shoulder. The blonde Gamemaker is talking to a short Gamemaker with scruffy black hair, olive skin, and slanted eyes. Relieved to not have an audience anymore, Dean settles more into his groove as he turns around.

“Have you ever fought before?” the trainer asks.

Dean shrugs. “I wrestled in school a little bit.”

“Do you want me to take it easy on you, then?”

Dean shakes his head and crouches a little bit to get ready. The trainer lashes out with his fist and Dean ducks.

“Not bad,” he compliments, inclining his head. He lunges out and Dean grabs his arm and twists it up. The trainer relaxes so he doesn’t get injured and hooks one leg around Dean’s, sweeping it up so he falls down. Dean hits the mat with an exhale of air but brings the man down with him. After a brief moment of tussling, they break apart, both panting, both with angry smiles on their faces.

“Oh, bring it on,” Dean whispers. And he goes to work.

* * *

On the second day, when Jo is jokingly working on throwing a spear, Dean notices a little shadow behind the two of them. “I think we’ve got a shadow,” he whispers, nudging Jo’s shoulder with his own.

Jo hands him the spear and Dean throws it as well. He’s not bad with it, as long as it’s not long-distance throwing. The angle allows him to see the twelve-year-old from District 11, Krissy Chambers, watching them. Her eyes are a little red-rimmed but her hair is pulled into a ponytail and she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, arms outstretched slightly. She looks like a bird. It makes Dean’s mouth pull into a sad smile.

After a while of following them, Krissy joins them at the knives-throwing station. She’s actually got pretty good aim, but only for smaller blades. She’s just so small. It makes Dean’s heart hurt, especially when he thinks of her Victor father back in District 11. Especially when he pictures Sam in her place, tagging along after older, stronger tributes, never given a fair chance.

Krissy’s smart; he’ll give her that. She’s good at plants like Jo.

Back on the District 5 floor, Castiel and Bobby seem to have one goal: to know what’s happening in the Training Center. They grill him and Jo on what each person’s skills are, who seems to be friendly, who seems to be  _ un _ friendly, and so on.

Jo takes all their advice into consideration, but Dean can’t lower himself down that low; Castiel is a  _ Capitol _ escort. He cares about Dean’s life about as much as Dean cares for the alley cats he sees scrounging for food. Maybe less. And, no matter how sober Bobby appears to be, the fact remains that every other tribute he’s ever mentored before has died. The fact remains that Bobby does not have any contacts, does not have any  _ friends _ , and probably expects both Dean and Jo to die in the Bloodbath.

During the third day of training, during lunch, first the District 1 boy is called, and then his counterpart. Dean doesn’t know the male District 1 tribute’s name, but he knows the female is called Bela Talbot. Then goes the District 2 tributes, Rugaru Mills (some of the names the Career districts come up with are just ridiculous) and Constance Welch. After that is Peter Sweeney and Wendy Igo from District 3. All those six people had volunteered for the chance to be Victors. They’re all going to die, and the worst thing is that they all chose this.

After Dae Mon and Mary Worthington of District 4, Dean is called. Jo wishes him luck in a soft voice and reminds him to throw weights. Dean reminds her to use her knives.

They nod at each other and Dean walks out the door.

Immediately he knows he is in trouble. The Gamemakers, just like everybody else in the Capitol, are dumb and lazy and have to be entertained all the time. They’re swarming around a group of Avoxes who are bringing them out some more food. The only two Gamemakers watching Dean are the blonde one that had winked at him earlier and the scruffy one with the slanted eyes. The blonde one has a lollipop in his mouth.

Dean throws around a few weights, making a few Gamemakers cheer halfheartedly. At one point one of them even catches his eye and nods. There’s not enough watching him, though. By the time Dean gives up with his weights, all but the two Gamemakers are turned away from him.

Determined to see it through, Dean walks over to the station that he’d been itching to go to all three days. It had been mostly empty all three days except for that Bela girl from District 1. Nobody bothers to use guns. They’re too boring. Hopefully they will make Dean stand out.

He picks up one gun and a box of ammunition. His hands immediately fall back into the old pattern of loading, unloading, checking the chamber. He looks up. The Gamemakers still aren’t watching him; they’re focused on a dead pig being carried in by an overwhelmed-looking Avox.

Anger floods Dean’s face red. These assholes don’t understand, do they? He needs a good score so he’ll get sponsors so he can get home to Sammy. But if they don’t pay attention to him…

A furious recklessness takes over and Dean raises the gun, clicking off the safety, right at that stupid dead pig with the apple in its mouth. To his surprise, the blonde Gamemaker doesn’t look alarmed at this new development. The Gamemaker with the slanted eyes opens his mouth to yell, but Dean’s already fired, and the blonde Gamemaker claps his hands and whoops with delight.

The apple seemingly disappears from the hog’s mouth. The rest of the purple-clad Gamemakers jump back, looking around wildly as its guts splatter on the wall behind them. No one was injured. Of course they weren’t; Dean’s a perfect shot.

Somehow someone sees Dean still standing with the gun extended and, like a wave, the Gamemakers turn to look at him.

Dean barely manages half of a bow. “Thank you for your consideration,” he says, sarcasm dripping off his every word, and he walks out of the room without being dismissed.


	8. Novaturient

Jo arrives in the District 5 floor in a huff, blonde hair flying furiously as she storms off into her room. Dean looks up from where he’d been trying to stomach enough wine to dull the pain of knowing he’d angered the Gamemakers. They’re going to give him the lowest score imaginable so no one will sponsor him and he knows it. He’d just lost his head at being ignored. “Jo?”

Her furious footsteps falter and then stop. After a second she storms back into the room he’s sitting in, lounging around on the couch while Castiel sits stick-straight in a chair near him, glancing disapprovingly at the alcohol in his hands every few minutes.

She heads right to Dean, face so thunderous it sobers him immediately. “Woah, woah—” Dean starts, putting the wine glass down hastily. “What did I—”

Jo topples over the side of the couch and falls heavily onto Dean, clenching so hard around his waist he has a little trouble breathing. It’s been a while since Sam has needed a hug like this, though, and Dean’s missed giving them out, so he returns the gesture. “That bad, huh?”

“They didn’t even look at me,” Jo gripes. Her voice is so hard Dean can tell she’s trying to be angry so she doesn’t cry out of frustration. He knows just how she feels.

“Yeah, mine didn’t go so hot either,” he murmurs, smoothing her hair over her back. “Scumbags, the lot of them.” He shoots a look at Castiel, but the escort’s eyes are pasted firmly on the ceiling. He’s obviously communicating nonverbally to act like he isn’t here, that he isn’t listening. Dean can’t figure him out.

“I threw my knives like you said and I did well,” Jo continues. “Did a few obstacle courses. Only the blond Gamemaker watched me.”

“I can get behind that,” Dean agrees. “My weights did nothing to impress them. The blond Gamemaker and the scruffy little Gamemaker were the only ones that watched me. They’re probably the only two people that take their job seriously.”

Castiel snorts softly behind them and Jo whirls around. “Oh, I’m sorry that we’re worried about whether or not we’re going to get sponsors!” she snaps. Castiel’s eyes widen comically and Dean realizes this might be the first time someone’s ever yelled at him. “It’s not like our lives are on the line, by the way!” she continues.

“You misunderstand me,” Castiel interrupts. He swallows visibly and Dean hides his smile behind his hand. Maybe the escorts do have more emotions than he’d thought. “I know that Gamemaker. The blond Gamemaker is my brother, Gabriel, and he is probably the last person to ever take his job seriously.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Jo snaps as Dean’s expression hardens. “We got the attention of yet another spacey, lazy, good-for-nothing—”

Dean puts his hand over her mouth.

“You misunderstand again. Gabriel never  _ wanted _ —” Castiel stops himself suddenly and wets his lips with his tongue. “He doesn’t take his job seriously, but not, I believe, for the reason you’d expect.” With an air of finality, he turns himself around just slightly enough so he’s looking out the window instead of at Dean.

Dean frowns. Gabriel never wanted what? He never wanted… his job? Why would he be doing it, then, if he didn’t want it? No, Castiel’s family is obviously very high in the government and they’re all scumbags because they laugh at kids who are about to die.

“If it makes you feel any better, I shot at them,” Dean says off-handedly. Jo’s eyes widen and Castiel’s head whips around, making him look like an owl. Neither of them are the first to speak, though.

“You  _ what _ ?”

Dean winces and closes his eyes at the new voice.

“Don’t tell me you shot at the Gamemakers, boy,” Bobby hisses, stepping farther into the room. His hat is back on his head and he’s wearing wrinkled denim pants and a yellow-tinged white undershirt. He looks like he normally does in District 5. “Boy! Of all the idiot—”

“Why?” Jo asks, cutting him off.

Dean shrugs. “They were more concerned about a roast pig being delivered than me, so I shot the apple in its mouth. Nobody got hurt,” he adds hastily.

“Impressive,” Castiel murmurs.

“They’re not going to hurt Sam, are they?” Dean wonders aloud. “Or kill me?”

Bobby hesitates before shaking his head. “Not this late in the game. Besides, everything that happens in the training rooms is secret—or’s supposed to be, anyway,” he corrects, his eyes twinkling a little bit. Or it could be the lights of the Capitol reflected in them. “No, what they’ll do is send some monsters after you in the arena,” he finishes, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Dean groans, but it’s not like he hadn’t been expecting that. No, his reaction is mostly exaggerated to make Jo laugh. Dean is very good at knowing when someone wants him to react to something, like when Sam will tell a blatant lie but Dean will go along with it just to see the delight on Sam’s face when he thinks he’s tricked Dean.

It works. Jo laughs, a little hollowly, and pushes Dean’s shoulder. “Well, it’s not like they weren’t going to already.”

Bobby leans forward. “What were their faces like?”

Without thinking, Dean begins to make fun of the fat, lazy Gamemakers in their stupid purple robes. He doesn’t even think about Castiel overhearing him. When the thought finally occurs to him, Dean realizes he doesn’t much care. Castiel’s been pretty helpful so far; he hasn’t told Dean off for the other offhanded comments he’s made or the plotting he must have overheard about a way to get both Dean and Jo out of the arena.

Dean doesn’t want to admit it, but he doesn’t think Castiel is the first person on his enemy list anymore.

Immediately John’s face swims in Dean’s vision, scowling, scolding.  _ Don’t trust him, _ he can hear John ordering.  _ He’s Capitol. He’s scum. He killed your mother. _

“They didn’t dismiss you?” Castiel asks, the first time he actively participates in the tribute and Victor’s conversation. Dean sort of sees it like an olive branch, especially considering the hopeful, hungry-dog sort of look Castiel is sending him.  _ He wants to be included _ .

“I dismissed myself,” Dean replies. He doesn’t try to sound as short as he does, but he’s just now remembering his promise to Sam that he would come home. Disrespecting the Gamemakers like that will hardly aid him in that goal, now will it?

“Well, even if you get a low score, people have been known to hide their talent by appearing mediocre and catching their opponents off-guard,” Castiel points out. Dean locks eyes with him and  _ knows _ in that instant, they’re both thinking the same thing: that’s what Dean’s mother did.

In some small way, that makes him feel better. Somehow Castiel made Dean feel like he’s closer to his mother. It’s practically a miracle and something he can’t say thank-you for aloud, but hopefully the escort sees it in the secretive smile Dean sends him.

“Well, that’s that,” Bobby says. “You all ready for dinner?”

The elevator doors open, as if on cue, and Charlie and Kara step in to dine with them as well.

Dinner is a relatively quiet affair. Dean is tired from both the stress of the day, the adrenaline that had coursed through him once he’d loosed that bullet, and the wine he’d drunk while waiting for Jo. Jo’s still angry, a little bit; Castiel doesn’t seem like a talker; and Bobby is too busy eating real, good food to strike up a conversation. Apart from the initial outburst that had followed when Dean admitted to shooting the Gamekeepers, everyone seemed to respect Dean and Jo’s desire for quiet.

After dinner, the motley little group heads over to the sitting room to watch the scores be announced on television. As expected, all the Careers score in the eight-to-ten range. Dae Mon from District 4 gets a 9, which causes a small uproar in the room, considering he’s not a Career, but his counterpart, Mary Worthington, only scored a four.

Dean can feel his heart pounding louder as his picture flashes on the screen. Then the number… eleven?

_ Eleven _ ?

Jo shrieks a little and hits Dean’s shoulder, completely missing her own scoring. Then everybody but Castiel is patting Dean on the shoulder, clapping him on the back. Dean barely notices Cole Trenton from District 7 get a nine—not terribly high for the district but still impressive considering he’s not a Career.

“There must be a mistake,” Dean says weakly, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen as Krissy Chambers scores a 7. “I… how could this happen?” He turns his eyes to Bobby.

“They must have liked your attitude,” the elder Victor shrugs. “God knows we need more than some bloodthirsty killers in the Games. More quips, less blood. It’s more entertaining. It’s—” Charlie elbows him and he falls silent.

“Just wait until you see your interview suit,” she says, eyes sparkling, and she pulls him into a hug.

“More sparks?” Dean asks.

She just smirks at him. “Of a sort.”

“Wait,” Jo says into the sudden, stunned silence. “What was my score?”

“You scored an eight,” Castiel answers. It’s impressive. Dean tells her good job.

_ What is Sam thinking right now? _ Dean thinks. Dean’s scored an eleven, which could mean more sponsors, but it could also mean a target painted onto his back. Surely the other tributes, especially the Careers who volunteered, are angry that he beat them out for the top score. Is Sam old enough to understand all the nuances of the Games, or is he just happy his brother is the best?

John knows all the nuances. Dean can’t help but wonder if his dad is proud of his high score or disappointed that he apparently hadn’t had enough self-control to blend into the crowd? Dean should know; he knows his father best, after all, but now that John’s seemingly a world away, in District 5, he seems like a faint memory.

Hopefully Dean did the right thing. He can handle the other tributes, can’t he? He just needs to be able to handle the brutal conditions he’ll undoubtedly face.

_ So. _ He lets out a long, controlled breath.  _ Can’t regret it now. _

* * *

Dean wakes up to someone in his room. At first he thinks nothing of the soft footsteps padding on the floor; Sam is an early riser and wakes him most mornings.

Then he remembers where he is—the Capitol, not his home; and alone, not with Sam—and he bolts upright, one hand reaching under his pillow for a gun that should be there but isn’t.

Castiel doesn’t turn around from where he’s rummaging through Dean’s closet. “ _ Damn _ it, Castiel!” Dean exclaims, wiping sleep out of his eyes. “Don’t you know personal space? Privacy?  _ How to knock _ ?”

“I apologize,” Castiel replies, not sounding apologetic at all as he examines two seemingly identical pairs of pants. They’re looser than the ones Dean had worn yesterday, thank God, and denim like the pants he wears back home in his District. “But it is time to wake up, and Jo warned me not to wake you up directly. She says you sleep angrily. Like a bear.”

Dean blinks with surprise and wipes his eyes once more when he sees the hint of a smile curving up the ends of Castiel’s lips. First of all, Jo and Castiel are on friendly speaking terms? They’re talking about Dean on those friendly speaking terms? And second, Castiel is… acting like a friend to Dean,  _ teasing _ him. Since when is that their normal?

_ No _ . Castiel works for the Capitol. He escorts children every year to their deaths. No matter how nice or teasing he may be acting right now, the fact of the matter is that he is complacent in a system of death and extortion.

“What’s next?” Dean asks bitingly. “You gonna watch me while I shower?”

“If you wish,” is all Castiel says. He chooses one pair of pants and lays it down on the bed next to a yellow flannel and gray short-sleeved shirt.

Flabbergasted, Dean just watches as he crosses the threshold of his room and leaves.  _ What the hell _ ?

It takes one long shower and hasty dressing before Dean arrives in the dining room. Jo is already there, as usual. Dean’s never had reason to notice before, but she must be a morning person. He most certainly isn’t. If he could, he would sleep all day.  _ Screw consciousness, that’s what I say _ .

He’d said that once to Sam as a joke, but the thought of that easy morning where Sam had begged Dean to take him out tugs at Dean’s heartstrings now. He should have taken Sam out with him. He should have done whatever Sam wanted to do, because now he’ll never have those memories with Sam. Sam’s going to grow up under John’s strict, watchful eyes instead of sneaking out of the district border to pick strawberries. He’ll be made ready to be a tribute—he’ll be a  _ Career _ —instead of being protected from the Games.

He and Jo exchange nervous glances. The interviews are tomorrow, where Dean will lay the foundations of the plan they’d formulated. That is, he’ll pull a Hail Mary and hope that it works. Hope that, for the first time in the history of the Games, two Victors will be allowed to survive.

“So what’s the schedule?” Dean asks around a mouthful of pie. Everything else about the Capitol might be crappy, but their pies are fantastic. If he could, he’d eat it for every meal.

“Just prep with me and Castiel today,” Bobby answers. “Four hours with each.”

Dean groans around his pie. “You’re joking?”

The glare Bobby sends him tells him he’s anything but. “You’ll be working with me first, Dean, for content. Then with Castiel for presentation.”

Dean snorts softly. He can’t imagine how doing anything with either man will take four hours.

How wrong he’d been.

Then again, the first half hour of his time with Bobby is the man just glaring at Dean. The few times Dean had fidgeted or tried to speak, Bobby had hushed him. He’s intimidating, even if Dean knows he’s really just an old drunk. Finally the Victor starts to speak. “I’m trying to figure out what to do with you,” he admits.

Dean frowns. “What?”

“Do we make you aloof? Charming? Fierce? Tomorrow is going to make or break you, at this point. You volunteered for your brother, which is a good piece—we can work that in, I’m sure—and Charlie made you look unforgettable. You got the highest training score. But nobody really knows who you are.”

Dean opens his mouth to say that he doesn’t care if anybody here knows who he is, that nobody in the Capitol is worth his time, but Bobby tells him to shut up.

“If you have a likeable personality, you’ll gain more sponsors. It’s just the facts,” he shrugs. “But at this point you’re just being sullen and hostile, and nobody wants to sponsor someone like that.”

Dean crosses his arms.

“Or somebody petulant. How about this,” Bobby suggests. “How about I interview you? We can see how much work you need.”

Dean tries, he really does, but the more questions Bobby asks him the more defensive Dean gets. Don’t these people already know everything there is to be said about him? They know about Mary—they killed her, after all—they know about John, they know why he’s a tribute. There’s not a whole lot left about Dean. His whole life he’s been taking care of Sam, taking care of John when he’s too angry or too drunk, taking care of Jo at school when she pisses off the wrong person.

Finally Bobby calls that approach off. “You’re still too hostile, and I don’t even know anything about you. I’ve asked you over fifty questions and you’ve managed to make every single one of them relate to your brother, which is actually rather impressive.” Bobby peers closer at Dean. “I’ve seen you around without that boy tagging along. He’s not your charge. He’s your daddy’s. He’s not your whole life. So stop acting like he is. Come on, boy, surely you’ve done some things without your family around.”

Dean’s face flushes at the thought of telling Bobby about the things he does when he’s not working or taking care of Sam. Sure, he’s not ashamed of it or anything, but the thought of talking about it with an old, alcoholic hermit makes him very uncomfortable.

Bobby’s eyes glint and he suddenly reminds Dean very much of a predator that’s spotted prey. Of course, that makes him the prey. “See, there we go. You’ve thought of something.”

“I’m not going to try to seduce you,” Dean jokes, shaking his head.

Bobby throws his hands up in the air. “I thought we’d never get there!”

“Get where?” Dean can hardly try to seduce his interviewer. Apart from the fact that he’s seen Andrew Gallagher and finds 1. his attitude, 2. his outfits, and 3. his age repulsive, that would be highly awkward for everybody involved.

“You’ve got to seduce the audience,” Bobby says.

Dean’s eyes go wide and an abrupt laugh escapes his lips. “No. No way.” That would be so uncomfortable. That would be so  _ embarrassing _ .

“Just use the same tactics as when you’re trying to get a lady,” Bobby shrugs. “Compliments. Turn everything back about them. Use the charm you’ve so conveniently stored away in a box for Castiel and I.”

Four hours are up.

Dean is the first one to the table. Jo comes storming down the stairs not long after he arrives, a fancy ball gown hiked up to her knees and a thunderous expression on her face. Castiel trails after her, his expression annoyingly unreadable, like usual.

“Well, I sure am looking forward to my session,” Dean jokes. He just wants to sleep, really. He wants to sleep and wake up learning that this is all just a hyper-realistic, cruel dream.

But no one’s won the Games by sleeping before.

Dean sighs and follows after Castiel once he’s finished eating. Time for manners.

Somehow, Castiel is even worse than Bobby.


	9. Ensorcell

When Dean wakes up, he’s being watched. It’s not Castiel this time, though. It’s his prep team. The second they see his eyes flutter open, a clamour breaks out that has him flinching, reaching under his pillow again instinctively.

There’s nothing for him to grasp, though, and the groping fingers that yank him out of bed are firm but not cruel. The worst thing they do to him is strip him of his privacy and clothes and shove him into the shower. Dean feels uncomfortable, knowing that there’s eyes on him, but he reasons that the quicker he showers the sooner he gets clothes on.

Once he gets out of the shower he’s bundled up into a fluffy heated robe and, much to his displeasure, they start to put light makeup on his face. Now  _ this _ is the worst thing they’ve done to him. It’s not even as bad as the light layer of gold dust they sprinkle over his whole body.

Dean trusts Charlie. He does. He should. But he can’t help but feel like this outfit is going to backfire and he is going to look ridiculous. Like a flaky, rusted statue made of fake gold.

After hours of primping, in which Dean has to fight tooth and nail to keep them from painting his nails after they cut and file them, Charlie enters with what Dean assumes is his suit. It’s covered up and she orders him to close his eyes.

Dean obeys. A childlike excitement makes him fidget as they pull the suit on him, but his eyes remain closed so as not to ruin the excitement. He almost reminds himself of Sam on birthdays.

The inside of the suit is silky and soft as his team pulls it onto him. That’s the first thing Dean notices. The second is that it’s  _ heavy _ . It must be at least forty pounds. Thank goodness he gets to wear his amulet under this costume, at least.

Someone grabs Dean’s hand and he holds onto it while stepping into his shoes. A few people squeal softly and there’s rustling all around him. Then silence.

“Can I open my eyes?” Dean asks, intending to make it sound sarcastic and teasing, but something in his hoarse voice gives away just how excited he is. How  _ scared _ he is.

“Sure,” Charlie replies.

Dean opens his eyes. He’s met with his reflection, only it’s not  _ his _ reflection, is it? Surely his eyes aren’t that green. His face doesn’t shine and his hair doesn’t sparkle like that normally.

Instinctively Dean rubs his wrists, only to realize that the bruises are covered. He hadn’t noticed his team putting makeup on them, but maybe he’d been too preoccupied as they messed with other parts of his body.

But that’s not the most surprising part of the outfit. He can see just why his suit is so heavy. It’s covered in thousands of tiny reflective gems, in all shades of red and orange and yellow. There’s even a hint of blue in there to accentuate the tongues of flame. Even the slightest movement gives the impression that Dean is being engulfed in fire.

Dean will be able to seduce the Capitol when he looks like this. He could seduce  _ anyone _ when he looks like this; with shimmering skin and hair, going up in an inferno, eyes piercing and green, looking well-fed for the first time in his life.

“Charlie,” he finally croaks.

Charlie just grins at him. “I know.”

Dean’s glad she’d interrupted him. He hadn’t been entirely sure what he’d been about to say, or if he was even going to say anything else.

“Twirl,” his stylist commands, twirling a finger in midair.

Dean rolls his eyes to save face but twirls for her. His prep team practically screams with admiration, but thankfully he doesn’t have to deal with them for much longer; Charlie dismisses them without looking.

“Are you all ready for the interview, then?” she asks. Dean can tell from her expression (she’s trying not to  _ laugh _ ) that she’s been talking with Bobby. “Ready to seduce Andy?”

Dean groans and almost sits down, but at the last second remembers his outfit. “Don’t remind me,” he gripes and compromises by leaning against the counter all the makeup products are resting on.

“Don’t worry,” Charlie waves a hand. “They’ll love you. Everyone does, don’t they?”

Dean snorts.

“Well, your team does,” she points out, cocking her head. “One of your opponents has already vowed not to kill you because you’re just that much of a good friend. Kara likes you, Bobby’s more sober than I’ve seen him in years—”

“I guess you’ve never seen me around the other tributes,” Dean mutters.  _ Around the Gamemakers. Around the insects. Around the president, around the Peacekeepers, around— _

His stylist just smiles. “Why do I get the feeling, Dean Winchester, that you have charm that you just need to turn on? I’m sure you could win over your competitors if you really tried.”

Dean scoffs, adjusting his cufflinks. If he’s so good at winning people over, then why is John still organizing a hopeless rebellion despite Dean’s pleads not to? Why does Sam get angry at him for telling him not to make John angry? Why couldn’t Ellen stay and talk to him a little longer?

“You’re going to be fine,” Charlie insists. “But it’s time to go.”

She moves to turn the doorknob, but Dean makes a sound of protest. It should have been a word, but his hands are shaking and his throat is dry. He doesn’t want to get up in front of all of those people. He would like nothing more than to blend back into the crowds, to let anyone (but Sam) take his place.

“You’re going to be fine,” she repeats. She turns the knob.

The rest of the District 5 crowd is waiting at the elevator. Jo is wearing a simple black dress with flame accents and, while Dean is glad they’re no longer wearing matching outfits—it would take away the grandeur of the suit he’s wearing—he can’t help but think that a dress would look better with the gems.

Bobby raises one impressed eyebrow when he sees Dean’s getup but that’s not what draws Dean’s attention. Castiel’s face is contorting as he watches Dean draw nearer, but it’s not a bad thing. In fact, he sort of looks like he’s trying to keep a smile off his face.

Dean raises an eyebrow at him, but stepping into the elevator takes all his concentration. He can’t scream and run away, can he? As much as he wants to.

When the elevator doors open, the other tributes are already being lined up to take the stage. Jo and Dean fall into line, ignoring the jealous whispers that follow them when the other tributes see that their stylists have knocked it out of the ballpark yet again.

Jo’s steady presence next to Dean is the only thing that keeps him grounded as he walks onto the stage. The lights are so bright it gives him a headache and the roar of the crowd is deafening. Dean keeps his eyes on the ground, only watching Jo’s feet as a guide to where he needs to go.

The people sitting closest to the stage are, of course, the stylists and the camera crew so they can broadcast the tributes and their stylists for the rest of the country not standing in the streets of the City Circle.

Andrew Gallagher, the recent replacement of the past Hunger Games’ interviewer, bounds onto the stage. He looks just like how the old interviewer looks and maybe that was on purpose, Dean thinks, maybe to make it seem like the old interviewer is still here. Like time isn’t passing.

Every year Andrew’s hair matches his outfit. This year, his suit is midnight blue and decorated with flickering lights like stars. His hair has been dyed a deep blue as well, and his lips and eyelids have been painted the same shade. It’s better than last year when his theme was black and he looked like a corpse all dressed up for its own wedding. Morbidly, Dean wonders if he’ll be replaced once he’s used up every color the Capitol can think of.

If there is one good thing about Andrew, it is how well he plays the crowd. He is fantastic about making the tributes stand out in their own way, reacts well to even the most basic of answers, and makes jokes when the tributes seem to be nervous.

District 1’s very own Bela Talbot is up first. It’s obvious her mentor hadn’t had to dig very deep to find her theme; she’s dressed in a see-through golden gown with only a small white slip underneath. She’s obviously meant to attract attention, and not even Dean can deny that she’s  _ good _ at it.

After that is the male tribute from District 1. Dean learns his name is Vam Pyre and he has to fight the urge to roll his eyes at the ridiculous names some of the Career districts can come up with. His approach is obvious as well; he aims to impress the crowd with his bloodthirst but he’s not particularly smart. Dean’s wrestled guys like him before and won.

Rugaru and Constance are both quiet, but Dean can see in their eyes a wary sort of intelligence that makes him hope they’re killed by other tributes before Dean confronts them. Peter Sweeney from District 3 is also ruthless like Vam, but Wendy Igo surprises everyone by being charming and sweet. She talks about some of the machines she’s built in her district and how much she loves inventing things. Dean knows he’ll have to watch out for traps.

Dae Mon is rude. He won’t be getting any sponsors, much to Dean’s relief, because the boy is also built like a tank. He’ll be one of the more fearsome opponents.

Mary Worthington is sharp and her humor is dry but Andrew manages to make it seem like she’s more funny than she actually is. For the last minute of the three allowed to her, she goes off on a tangent about her boyfriend, which makes the audience croon and Andrew wishes her good luck at the end in getting back to him. It just makes Dean’s stomach turn.

Finally Jo is called up to sit with Andrew. Dean tenses up when she stands. She walks briskly, with purpose, and a general murmur raises the City Circle’s volume at the sight of her flame-colored dress. Dean’s sure that back home in District 5, Ellen’s eyes are watery and she’s smiling with pride at her daughter, looking so proud and beautiful and strong. That’s how he wants to be remembered, too, though he doubts John will ever think of him as anything but a failure.

Jo manages to turn on the charm for Andrew when he asks her what she’s enjoying the most about the Capitol. In true Jo fashion, she answers that she’s enjoying the food and Andrew manages to turn it into a joke that makes the audience roar. Dean relaxes a little bit once he sees she’s fine.

With a few flicks of her hair, she’s got the Capitol completely under her spell.

His stomach is in knots by the time Jo’s interview is finished. He stands up with legs that are shaking almost imperceptibly and tries to wipe his sweaty hands off on his suit, but the jewels aren’t very absorbent. His hands just slide right off. How is he supposed to bring up his ‘relationship’ with Jo? Their plan is going to fall through. He can already feel the sands of hope slipping through his fingers.

The audience roars when they see his suit and Dean, remembering he needs to win them over, smiles, waves, and does a spin. He hopes he looks like he’s still on fire.

“Hello, Dean!” Andrew says jovially. “Well, I must say, you’ve made quite an impression, haven’t you? Spin again, won’t you?”

The audience roars as Dean complies.

“Well,” he says, licking his lips. What would he say if it was a girl saying that to him? “The Capitol has certainly made an impression on me as well.” He tries to smile but it comes out a little bit forced.

“Part of that impression,” Andrew presses, “is how you volunteered for your brother! Can you tell us a bit about him?”

Dean freezes, mind lagging. He can’t seduce if someone’s talking about his brother.

His eyes meet Charlie’s, from where she’s sitting in the front row, and he throws out the whole ‘seduction’ idea.

“His name is Sam,” Dean says slowly. He’s surprised by what his voice sounds like. Like it’s deeper than it is, raspier.  _ Sadder _ . “He’s only twelve years old. And he’s… he’s the most important person to me.”

A coo rises from the crowd.

“Really?” Andrew leans forward, raising his eyebrow. “I find that a little bit hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“Well, look at you, Dean! Surely you also have a… special someone waiting for you at District 5?”

Dean can’t believe his luck. “Well, there is one girl,” he says, uttering a deep, fake sigh. “We’ve been close forever, but I don’t think she ever really saw me in the same way I see her.”

Another sigh rises from the crowd. Unrequited love is a trope they enjoy. It’s in every single Capitol show Dean’s boredly watched.

“Well, surely you going to the Games and winning for her will win her over!” Andrew encourages.

Dean bites his lip and shakes his head. He’s almost having fun playing the Capitol like this. He’s almost enjoying the secretive smiles he and Jo have been sending each other all day, because this is more like what they’re used to: being involved in a lie to fool authority figures. It’s just a game to them. “That won’t really work for me, I don’t think.”

“Well, why ever not?” Andrew presses.

“Well…” Dean hesitates until he can see the interviewer almost bursting, and then he admits, “she came with me.”

For a moment it’s completely silent, and then the crowd lets out a few pitied cries. Dean glances up just long enough to see Jo’s face on every screen. She’s playing her part well. She looks shocked, her mouth open and face red.

“Well, that certainly  _ is _ a bit of bad luck,” Andrew says after a moment. He really does sound like he feels for Dean. “And she didn’t know?”

“Not until now,” Dean says, one eye on the screen where he can see Jo press her lips together and look at the ground, twin spots of red high on her cheeks. The irresistible urge to laugh nearly folds Dean in half at how well this is going. He can just imagine Sam, John, and Ellen at home, confused. Maybe they think he’s trying to get himself more sponsors, maybe they think he’s trying to get Jo more sponsors, or maybe their minds are looking so far ahead in the chess game that they can see exactly what the stunt is that he’s trying to pull off.

“Well, one can hardly blame you,” Andrew says gently. “She is a remarkable young lady.”

“She really is,” Dean agrees vehemently. Though he might not think of Jo as anything other than a sister, he’s not blind enough to see that she is amazing. She really can win the Games.

“Would you all like for us to pull Joanna up and see what she thinks about all this?” Andrew asks. The crowd screams but he only chuckles. “Sorry, ladies and gents, but rules are rules. Joanna’s already used up all her time! Well, best of luck to you, Dean Winchester, and I think I speak for all of Haven when I say our hearts go with you.”

Dean stands up on shaky legs as the crowd roars so loud he nearly goes deaf. He’s wiped the rest of the tributes off the map with his declaration of love for Jo, thank God, and he almost feels bad for the other tributes that have to interview with Andrew when it’s so clear that nobody cares for the rest of the tributes. As he walks back to his seat, he’s not unaware of the glares the other tributes are sending him.

The cameras stay on Jo and Dean, even after he’s sat down again, for an unreasonable amount of time. It definitely pisses off the District 6 girl when she looks at the screen and instead of being focused on her, it’s still focused on the poor District 5 tributes who are sitting so still but separated by an invisible curtain created in the viewers’ minds that they can’t cross.

Except Dean knows better.

He doesn’t even feel bad that he’s overshadowed the other tributes until little Krissy Chambers goes to be interviewed with Andrew. She’s wearing a gossamer little ball gown with puffy sleeves and wings on the back like she really is a fairy. His heart aches at the thought that, when this is all over, that little dress will be bloody, those wings torn.

But he’s getting back to Sam.

Nobody seems to be able to make eye contact with Dean as he rides the elevator back up to the District 5 floor. They’re all seething, barely imperceptible underneath the fancy dresses and jewelry, but Dean couldn’t care less. He and Jo are going to have all eyes on them. They’re going to get sponsors.

He hopes.

Castiel is smiling gently and Bobby is beaming as the tributes walk back in stony silence. The second they’re alone, though, the act is dropped and Dean and Jo are clutching each other, laughing like they aren’t pulling off the most dangerous trick they’ve ever pulled.

“Who knew you’d have it in you?” Bobby bellows, sweeping them up into a hug. “You both were so good! God, it worked better than I would have thought—”

He continues to blabber on to Jo about how this is going to be so good, how this is going to make her romantic and desirable and Dean will be perceived as sweet and all that drivel, but Dean’s turning away to look at Castiel’s reaction. Apart from the small smile, nothing else is given away. He’s still wearing the trenchcoat, he’s not bellowing or talking at all, he’s not jumping up and down. Briefly Dean wonders if they should be reacting like this when Castiel could very well be spying on them for the Capitol, but what can he really do? There are almost certainly bugs in their rooms, so the president knows it’s all an act. Naomi can’t actually do anything about it, though, not in public.

“That was an impressive interview,” Castiel eventually says. He offers Dean his hand and Dean shakes it firmly. The escort’s hand is warm—almost scorching, but Dean doesn’t know how that could be possible. More likely he’s just excited and Castiel’s just hot from his trenchcoat.

“Thank you, Castiel,” Dean replies. It’s the first time he’s ever said something directly to the escort, he thinks, and definitely the first time using his name to address him.

Tomorrow he’s going to die, though, and his seconds are few. Should he really waste them on saying a few extra syllables?

“Do you have a nickname or something?” Dean continues. “Because Castiel is just such a long name, and frankly, weird. What about your brother? I’m sure he calls you things other than Castiel, right?”

Castiel tilts his head before shaking it slowly. “I’ve never had a nickname before, but you can give me one, if you like.”

Dean opens his mouth without the first idea what name to suggest, but Castiel stops him by holding up one hand. “ _ After _ you survive the Games.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me so far. This is the last non-Games chapter, so buckle in for some violence!  
Reviews are welcomed and appreciated always. I will try to respond to them. Tell me about your hopes, concerns, anything about this story, or simply tell me about your day. I'd love to hear it.


	10. Glugaveddur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So this is the first chapter of the actual Games. Make sure to look at the tags for trigger warnings. Most of them are to be expected, but I just want to make sure everyone knows what they're getting into.  
Reviews are always appreciated, as are kudos.

The light is blinding, the crowd deafening, and Dean puts a hand up to his eyes, careful not to step off the platform he’s standing on so he doesn’t get blown up immediately. It’s always quieter whenever he watched the Games through his television. The light was always less blinding. The adrenaline that had pumped through him while on the couch next to Sam is nothing next to the feeling that’s making him shaky right now. Watching the Games never made him as terrified as he is right now, staring down the rest of the tributes that want to kill him.

Dean Winchester has walked into the Hunger Games. He’s fuller than he’s ever been in years but also more terrified than he’s been in years. He’s got an ally and a brother waiting for him at home. As much hope as a sane person could have is stored in the heart Dean likes to keep locked up.

He’s got so much more than some of the tributes in the arena, which means he has more to lose.

He’s going to die.

“Get out of there fast,” Bobby had said last night when he’d sobered up a little bit at the prospect of them both dying today. In just a few moments, actually. Probably. Dean’s plunging headfirst into the bloodbath, after all; it’s foolish of him to think even for a second that he’ll be special or spared or anything like that. “Find a source of water. A source of food as well. Just… get out fast.”

Dean and Jo had exchanged looks then, and they exchange them now. Their roles are clearly defined: Jo will be the runner, the one sure to survive (and if Dean doesn’t, well, she’ll be the one to protect Sammy. It’ll be nice to help someone else shoulder the burden, won’t it?). Dean will wade into the bloodbath and grab the weapons he needs. It’s his job to survive too, but the more important part of his job is to take out as many people as he can. Less people for Jo to face later.

They’re supposed to meet up at the northernmost point of the arena. Things can always go wrong, though, and so quickly. Dean doesn’t even bother to hope that he’ll see Jo after she takes off.

Speaking of weapons… he looks at the arena that has been designed for this year’s Games, searching for the Cornucopia. This arena is similar to District 5, actually, in the way it’s filled with buildings, some ruined. These are abandoned, though, and so tall Dean could reach the sky if he climbed all the way to the top of it. In District 5 the buildings are no taller than three stories. The tallest building is clearly visible and looks to be about fifteen stories.

This year’s arena is… an abandoned district. Or something like that. Buildings in the center, the Cornucopia only fifty feet away (but that fifty feet will become, Dean knows, no-man’s-land once the Careers take control of the Cornucopia).

And in the outskirts, obviously, there are some trees and bushes, just enough for someone to hide and hunt, but Dean has a feeling the majority of the food will be found in the buildings.

And it will be a finite amount.

Dean’s eyes track around the arena as more tributes emerge from their Launch Rooms. They’re all wearing the exact same outfits: brown pants cinched by black belts, grey tunic down to their knees, black jacket. Charlie had remarked that there might be some cool nights. Dean hadn’t mentioned that he can make fires, maybe because he’d thought by saying the thought out loud the Capitol would make it just that much harder for him to find the materials necessary.

Charlie had told Dean that she wasn’t allowed to bet, but if she could, her money would be on him and Jo. She’d said that while helping Dean tuck his amulet underneath his shirt and winking at him like they’re sharing a secret.

God, he hopes she’s right.

Dean thinks about what she’d told him. “They’re calling you the Flaming Sword,” she’d said. “They love your training score. They love the way you volunteered for your brother. They love your love confession. You just need to prove you’re worthy to be sponsored. They want you to be worthy. It won’t be hard.”

The voice of the Games’ announcer, the legendary Asmodeus Stardonna, booms all around Dean. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the 68th annual Hunger Games begin!” It starts the sixty-second countdown before tributes are allowed to leave the metal circles and swarm the Cornucopia. If they do step off the circle, their legs are blown off. And their heads. And their arms.

A flurry of movement catches Dean’s attention and he turns his head just in time to see the hobbled boy, Kubrick, who’d been so obviously scared yesterday, fling himself off his ring. The explosion rattles the ground and Dean drops to a crouch so he doesn’t fall off as well.

The countdown doesn’t stop. At ‘thirty-three’ the trembles stop, leaving shocked tributes in its wake. Dean looks up. Jo had been right next to Kubrick. She’s never killed anything before.

Just as Dean had suspected, Jo looks shell-shocked. When she turns to look at Dean fully, he can barely make out a smear of what looks to be dirt from the explosion on her face.

Or maybe it’s not dirt.

Quickly, Dean looks around. Everyone looks to be shocked by Kubrick’s decision, even Bela. Dean is, too, but maybe he’s just better at keeping his emotions locked down tight because he crouches down into a ready position again as the countdown reaches 25.

Dean’s eyes scour the entrance of the Cornucopia. He needs to pick his target, grab the supplies, and get out immediately. To his surprise, he spots a pretty handgun by the entrance.  _ That’s for me, _ he can’t help but think.  _ That’s mine. _ Because he’s surely the only one that knows how to use one or aim with any sort of precision, but everyone else will want to get it, if only to keep everyone else from it. He’s not as fast as some of the people must be, but he’s strong, so he has a snowball’s chance of grabbing the gun. And if he gets that gun, he’s much better off.

The countdown sounds 10 and Dean gets ready. He sees Jo crouching as well, her knees pointed in the direction away from where the bloodbath will be. There’s a few items spread out that far away from the Cornucopia and he hopes she has the good sense to grab them. Especially what looks to be a first-aid kit right by her circle. He’s going right into the bloodbath; he might need it.

The gong sounds before his ears stop ringing from the blast. Dean’s leaping off the silver circle before anyone else, his legs hitting the ground so soon he's almost worried he jumped off before the bombs could be neutralized. But he's fine, he doesn't get blown up, and he starts to sprint to the Cornucopia, scooping up whatever is in his path that he can shove into his pockets. He gets a loaf of bread and a pack that might protect from rain. Krissy Chambers nearly bowls him over as she sprints away from the bloodbath like Jo, but he manages to stay on his feet. He still loses a few seconds, though, and internally he curses.

Baku Sun from District 12 cuts in front of Dean and grabs the bright orange pack he'd been headed for. Dean almost runs past it until the boy keels over, a knife suddenly sprouting from his back. Dean scoops up the backpack without looking back. It’s probably Wendy Igo; she spent most of her time during training at the knife station and, as far as Dean can tell, never missed a target.

He chances a glance behind him and sees Wendy’s arm already drawing back. Somebody jumps her, though, but not before the knife goes flying. Dean tries to dodge, but he stumbles and the time he takes regaining his footing is all the time the knife needs to slice clean through his right forearm. It hurts less than he’d expected. It’s probably the adrenaline.

_ Then _ the pain sets in. But he can’t think about that now.

Dean scoops the knife up, deposits it in his bag, and keeps running. Fear and pain make him pant more than the actual exertion of zigzagging between fighting teenagers. At some point someone gets cut and their blood splatters onto Dean’s face but he just blinks and keeps running. By some miracle nobody tries to pick a fight with him; they’re either too preoccupied with fighting other people or running from the bloodbath.

Both Vam and Rugaru are fighting over a spiked club by the time Dean makes it to the opening of the Cornucopia. The gun is so close,  _ he's _ so close, but then the boy from District 9, Bart Kemp, bumps into him while also grabbing for a hunk of cheese and by the time Dean looks at the gun again Bela’s already got her sticky fingers on it and is running away as fast as she can.

A roar fills the air behind him and Dean turns. Somehow Vam had managed to grab a torch of sorts that shoots flames. Rugaru screams in pain and falls to the ground, rolling to get the fire out of his clothes. Vam turns around, a machete in the hand he’s not using to wield the flame-torch, and his eyes lock with Dean’s.

Dean takes a small step back and his booted foot brushes against something. It’s another small knife.

Just as Vam shoots a stream of fire at Dean, he ducks and rolls, scooping up the knife. Before he’s back on his feet he throws the knife blindly in Vam’s direction, trusting his skills to do the rest and trying to ignore the fiery pain in his forearm every time he moves his arm.

Dean blinks liquid out of his eyes and pats down his hair just in case he hadn’t missed the fire completely. His eyes are watering now, his lungs screaming at him to take a break, but now isn’t really the time for breaks.

Vaguely he processes Vam stumbling back, the knife lodged neatly in his side, but Dean is more preoccupied with the machete in the boy's hands. He yanks it out of his grip, fumbling with the bigger boy's clammy fingers trying to keep hold of the weapon.

Without thinking, Dean yanks the knife out of the boy's stomach. No, wait, he  _ is _ thinking. He's thinking that the knife would stop the bleeding if it was kept in.

Mindful of the District 12 girl that's pinned to the ground by the District 7 boy only a few feet away, Dean kicks Vam in the knife wound. When the boy yells with pain, bending forward and swearing through streaming eyes, Dean grabs the flame-torch as well. Seeing another Career girl stalking towards him with murder in his eyes and a large club in her hands, Dean recognizes that his time in the Cornucopia is over. He grabs a spare water bottle lying on the ground, and takes off.

Yes, he's leaving Vam to die, but only because to stay and finish him off would be suicide. This creates the risk that Vam won't bleed out and will want to kill Dean any more, he knows, but he takes off out of the Cornucopia anyway, fires a very small burst of fire at the girl with the club to discourage her from following him, and is swallowed up by the tall abandoned buildings within seconds.

He’ll just have to deal with Vam later if he does survive.

After what feels like an hour of running and weaving through the abandoned district buildings, Dean deems it safe to slow down and duck into a building. It's eerie how just minutes ago he'd been able to see every one of his competitors, and now the arena seems completely deserted.

The door isn't locked and, really, Dean shouldn't have expected it to be. He does expect an ambush, even though the odds that someone else is in this building rather than any of the others in the whole arena are slim to none. With a hesitant, watchful eye, Dean eases the door open with his foot. The machete he holds in his right hand so tightly his knuckles go white and the flame torch in the other.

Just the creak of the door has Dean jumping, and then he scolds himself internally. He’s just a little on edge. With good reason! Every one of his breaths could be masking the approach of a tribute. Every shadow could be hiding someone waiting to kill him. Every—

“Stop,” Dean says aloud. He takes three deep breaths and clenches and unclenches his fist to keep his fingers from shaking.

Everything he does is broadcasted on live television. Dean can’t afford to panic. He needs to appear strong so he’ll get sponsors and find Jo so the masses will coo at their epic love story. From now on he might as well pretend that Castiel is steps behind him all the time, except… Dean feels like he wouldn’t need to pretend in front of Castiel.

So he’ll just pretend that the blonde Gamemaker— _ Gabriel, _ Castiel had called him; his brother—is always behind him. It’s not like he’s not watching. It’s not like Castiel isn’t watching, either.

Everyone is watching Dean. Everyone in all of Haven, including every insect, every district citizen, and even the president. Maybe not right at this moment; if the fighting is still going on at the Cornucopia, the cameras will surely be focused there. But surely he’s appearing on the screen at intervals, letting people know that he’s still alive.

The door creaks all the way open, letting light flood into the room. It truly is an abandoned district; the layout of the room is as if someone had just left it. It’s extremely clean and, judging by the seashells on the stand by the bed, it is supposed to look like a room someone might have in District 4. Dean doesn’t see any flurries of movement. There are no bloodstains or shuffling sounds to notice. He’s probably alone.

He steps further into the room and eases the door shut behind him. Now is probably the best time to take stock of what he has, when people are either running or fighting.

What he has: the bright orange backpack (vaguely Dean wonders if there is anything he could use to dull the color; perhaps if it rains he can dunk it in mud), the plastic pack he has yet to decipher what it could be used for, one machete, the knife that had grazed his forearm, a small loaf of bread, the knife he’d used to stab Vam, the flame torch, and a water bottle.

All those weapons are well and good, but if Dean can’t find a source of water and more food, he’s screwed. If he doesn’t find Jo soon, Jo without any weapons to protect herself, she’s screwed too.

When Dean opens up the backpack, he’s pleasantly surprised to see a thin black sleeping bag that reflects body heat, a pack of crackers, a pack of dried beef strips, a bottle of iodine, a box of wooden matches and a small bottle of gasoline, and a small coil of wire. He came out of the bloodbath unreasonably well, and he can’t help the paranoia that tells him that once the Gamemakers see how well he’s doing, they’ll send more obstacles his way.

Dean tucks the machete into his belt where he’ll be able to reach it easily. Though he longs to take a bite of the bread, he knows he can’t. Eating any food in the arena requires careful consideration; his mother had ensured that. He doesn’t have the time for that.

Dean drops the small knife with his blood on it into his boot. The knife he’d used to stab Vam is slightly longer and has a serrated edge, which will be useful if Dean ever needs to cut through anything. He puts that and everything else in his backpack.

What he also has: the cut on his forearm. It’s still burning with every move he makes, but he’s had worse. It had bled a lot, though, and Dean has to peel his tunic away from the cut in order to see it, wincing when the fabric pulls at the torn skin. It’s a thin cut, neat but deep. It’s almost stopped bleeding, but when Dean probes at the skin another bead of blood wells up in the cut.

He doesn’t have much longer before he needs to continue on and find Jo, so he neatly rips a strip of fabric off of the bottom of his shirt and wraps it around the cut. Hopefully she’ll have picked up the first-aid kit so he can get it patched up the right way. Infection would not be a good thing in the arena.

Another thing he has: lasting power from being able to eat as much as he’d like. He’s got more stamina to run until he finds Jo.

Dean can only hope his slight injury isn’t going to cost him any sponsors. One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, where there are more casualties than any other day. The only other time the betting is as competitive is when the field of players narrows to five people or so.

Dean peeks his head out of the building and stares up at the sky. The sun is high in the sky directly overhead, leading him to believe that it must be midday. The cannons won’t be fired for a few more hours. Unfortunately, now he can’t tell which direction is which. When Dean tries to wrack his brain to remember where the sun had been rising earlier, he can’t remember.

Well, until he can figure that out, he might as well search for food. He ducks back into the building, reasoning that it’s better to be sheltered than to be out in the open for now. To his surprise, there’s a lock on the door that Dean slides shut immediately for some semblance of protection.

Instead of loitering, Dean looks around the room. The room is small, about the size of his own back in District 5. He crosses the room and sees a narrow staircase through a doorway. Each floor of the building is only one room and the staircase connects each floor to each other. In this room there is a lot of furniture.

The Gamemakers wouldn’t have put all this furniture in the arena if it wasn’t useful for something, would they? Surely there’s something under the pillows or the mattress or inside the locked chest.

Dean bets that most of the tributes don’t know how to pick locks. This may be just the edge he needs, as long as he can find something suitable to pick the locks with.

Dean’s scratching at the floorboards, trying to pick out a piece of wood long enough to pick the lock of the chest, when the cannons start. Each shot represents a dead tribute. The fighting must have stopped at the Cornucopia. When it’s still going on it’s too confusing to truly discern if someone’s dead or just wounded. They never collect the bloodbath victims until the killers have dispersed.

Dean allowed himself to stop, wincing at the one fingernail he’d torn off and the splinters in his middle finger, as he counts the shots. One, two, three… on and on until eight cannons are shot. Dean’s ears ring. Eight people already dead. That’s less than it normally is. There are sixteen people left in the arena, fifteen not including Dean, and fourteen that want to kill him.

He knows that Baku Sun is dead. He won’t be able to learn about any of the others until they project the dead’s images into the sky so everyone sees. Ticks them off the list of people they need to kill. Hopefully another two are Rugaru and Vam, both succumbing to their injuries. Hopefully Jo wasn’t caught by anyone. If Dean sees her face projected onto the night sky, well… the Capitol would surely believe his lie. He simply can’t imagine Jo already bled dry and shipped back to District 5 in a box.

Dean licks dry lips and suddenly realizes he is thirsty. Would it have killed the Gamemakers to have filled up the water bottle? Still, he continues on with the arduous task of ripping the wood up. The more boring he is, the less of a chance there is that the cameras will be on him. The greater the chance that the Gamemakers will find a way to make him decidedly less boring.

It’s a very thin line he’s walking, but hopefully he’ll be able to do it.

Finally a piece of wood comes up that’s both long and thin enough. Dean makes short work of the lock. Sometimes he’d had to pick the lock on the pantry when John had been gone too long and hadn’t set out enough food for him and Sam. When he pushes the lid of the chest up, there is a single plastic bottle of water and a can of food sitting in it. Dean picks up the can and reads the label. It’s something called tuna.

Well, any food is useful, and the best thing about eating out of cans is that there’s no chance it’s been poisoned.

Without thinking, Dean opens up the water bottle and downs about half of it before remembering himself. He doesn’t know how much more water he’ll be able to find.  _ Stupid, _ Dean scolds himself. He can hear John saying it too.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid. Do that with food but not with water. Water is much more precious. _

A quick thought has Dean’s mouth quirking up. Most likely the tributes don’t know how to pick locks, and if they do, they don’t know how to do it well. He and Jo do, though, and if there’s food and supplies in the buildings…

He needs every edge he can get. He’s taking after Mary.

Dean looks up at the sky.  _ Mom, I’m taking after you. I’m outsmarting my opponents. _ He knows that his mother was never in this arena, that she died long before it was even beginning to be made. But somehow being here makes him feel close to her in a way that he never has before.

Dean raises shaking hands to his face and allows himself to rest, for just a moment, trying to calm his breathing and shaking limbs. He survived the bloodbath.  _ He survived the bloodbath. _


	11. Thanataphobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. Reviews are greatly appreciated. As always, please check the tags of this story thoroughly for any potential triggers.  
Also, if anyone has any theories for the season, I'd love to hear them! Won't go into mine in full here, but if anyone would like to talk about it, I'd be happy to discuss in the comments.  
Thank you all!

Dean watches the sun set through the window of his makeshift safe haven. He knows where west is now, which means he knows the rest of the directions. He knows he’ll have to find Jo soon, but the thought of venturing out of the room where tributes could be hiding around every corner, makes him shy away from the door. Especially now that light is dying. They won’t be able to see him very well, but the reverse is also true. The double-edged sword.

Besides, those that survived the Cornucopia now have weapons, torches, and alliances. They’ll keep hunting throughout the night.

Hopefully none of the Careers notice the drying mud patch Dean had created. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to use all his water to camouflage his backpack, so some spots of orange peek out from the brown, but at least it’s more camouflaged than it had been earlier.

As night falls, the air grows significantly cooler. With a mixture of annoyance and concern, Dean realizes he will have to find Jo. He wishes she wasn’t here so he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone but himself, but she is. He can’t change that. All Dean can do is keep her safe.

If only he had the gun.

_ I’ll stay here until the death recap, _ Dean decides. He’ll need to go to the very top of the building in order to see it without sticking his head out of a window. That poses another risk; the door on the ground floor is locked, but very easily a tribute could make it through a window on one of the higher floors by jumping off the roof of a slightly shorter building. Dean can’t risk leaving his pack on the bottom floor. He shrugs it on, despite the strain making his shoulders ache, and takes the stairs two at a time. His lips become even more dry with every breath he takes, his lungs and calves burning, but he continues on. In the arena there is no time for weakness, no time for rest.

Dean has to climb up seven staircases. At each landing, he enters carefully, flame torch ready to scorch someone to ashes and machete ready to hack someone to bits. But each floor is empty. He locks the windows, though it won’t be much use if someone crashes through them. He also locks the doors that lead to some sort of weird metal staircase on the outside of the building. The metal isn’t solid but sort of a sturdy mesh. Some people are scared to walk on mesh like that, but Dean doubts anyone in the Games will be held back by a hindrance such as that.

It’s a good ambush place, though. Also a good escape route. Lucky the doors lock from the inside.

Finally the last flight of stairs leads to the roof. Dean is higher than he’s ever been before. It can’t help but remind Dean of the elevator, but at least the elevator had been closed off. If the wind picks up, Dean could fall off the roof. What an anticlimactic way to die.

“Oh, no,” Dean says aloud. “This is much worse.”

So he stays right by the door, one hand on the handle, as he waits for the death recap. He needs to know what he’s heading into.

Haven’s anthem starts to play and Dean’s head jerks up, eyes wide in anticipation. This is it. Does he continue north or go back to the Cornucopia to wipe out the Careers? Does he continue north and hoard his rations to give to Jo or will he be able to focus on himself solely?

(Somewhere deep inside Dean realizes he’d never really be able to focus solely on himself.)

The seal of the Capitol appears. It looks like it’s floating in the sky, but Dean’s just looking at another screen projected by the Capitol’s disappearing hovercraft.

After the final warbles of the anthem, the screen goes dark. If Dean was at home, he would be watching the recap of every tribute’s death just in case he’d missed them, like if he’d gone to the bathroom or something. Those same recaps aren’t shown to the tributes, though, because it’s seen as an unfair advantage. Revealing anyone’s secret talents. Telling the tributes who killed their partners. The Capitol wants the Games to be merciless bloodshed, not premeditated killing out of revenge.

In the arena, all Dean sees is the headshots that had been shown when their training scores had been televised. Instead of scores, though, district numbers appear. Dean ticks the fallen tributes off on his fingers as they appear on the screen.

The first face that appears is Peter Sweeney from District 3. His death is surprising; Careers usually survive the first day. But that means Bela isn’t dead and neither is Vam. Rugaru isn’t dead, either.  _ Maybe the feuding Careers will take each other out _ , Dean thinks hopefully. But reality clocks him in the face and makes him admit to himself that it’s unlikely to happen.

The next face that appears is Jin Lee from District 6 and Dean cries aloud with relief.  _ Jo isn’t dead. Yet. _ He needs to find her.

Rak Shasa from District 6 has also died too. Dean hadn’t been expecting that; she’d seemed tough during training.

The girl from District 8, Lamia Greenster, and District 9’s girl, Tracy Bell, are dead as well. Dean had completely forgotten about Kubrick but once the hobbled boy’s shown on the screen Dean realizes he miscounted. There are only fifteen people left in the arena including Dean. Thirteen he needs to kill.

District 11’s boy, Croco Tas, is dead, and so are both District 12 tributes. Neither of those are surprising. Dean can’t help but feel a little sick when Baku’s face is shone on the screen, remembering that he’d ripped the backpack from his dead fingers, and is relieved when the girl tribute he’d arrived with, Wraith Williams, is shown. It may be dumb of him to not want his competition to die, but the part of him that John molded into a soldier is larger.

At least little Krissy Williams isn’t dead.

A little traitorous voice whispers in the back of his mind,  _ Yet. _

The Capitol seal is shown with a musical flourish before it fades out. The sounds of the forest surrounding the buildings are faint but they carry throughout the eerie silence of the abandoned district.

_ District 13, _ Dean thinks a little derisively. It’s like he’s really in the 13th District. What makes the metaphor even more perfect is that the real-life District 13 is abandoned just like this one. Who knows; maybe all the tributes were flown out to the actual place. Maybe they really are in District 13 again. Maybe the Capitol had rebuilt it just to pull this stunt, to tell the rebels again that the Capitol is in charge. That you can’t rebel. That all your children will die before any rebellion ever succeeds.

Well, Naomi’s out of luck. John Winchester is the most stubborn bastard she’ll ever have to deal with. He won’t stop with the rebellion when Dean dies; in fact, it’ll probably spur him on further. No matter what she does to John, save killing him, he won’t stop. And he won’t even stop then. Dean’s sure that John’s ghost will come back to haunt him, goading him further into the maws of death while simultaneously insisting that Sam be protected at all costs.

_ That’s not going to happen, _ Dean reminds himself.  _ I’m going to die in this arena. A rebellion is the least of my worries. Worry about how and when you’re going to die now, so you can protect Jo as long as possible. _

From what Dean’s seen of previous Hunger Games, the strong band together to hunt the weak until they’re all gone and tensions are running too high. He wouldn’t necessarily be considered ‘weak’ but there’s still a target on his back from getting an 11 during training, and stealing the spotlight by confessing to his undying love for Jo. He starts to second-guess himself. Should he just stay in the building for now? Or does he need to find Jo? For all he knows, she could be in trouble. Not yet dead but getting there.

Dean laments not knowing the layout of the arena beforehand. He doesn’t know if Jo stopped at the northernmost building in the faux-district or kept going until the woods. Nevertheless, he starts a steady process down the stairs, very aware of every shuffle his boots make against the clean floor.

His fingers hover over the small bump in his arm where the tracker was injected. He’d pressed on it while Charlie walked him to the Launch Room hard enough to create a small bruise. If only he could use the technology to see where Jo is as well.

Dean’s on the third floor when he hears a commotion outside. As quietly as he can, he opens up the door he’d locked and steps slightly out onto the landing of the weird metal staircase. He can’t see much in the dim lighting, but he can make out the sound of an unmistakable fight happening. Just as he’d suspected, the Careers are out hunting again.

There’s a roar and a brief flare of light. Dean’s obviously not the only one with a flame torch. The light had allowed him to see at least four shapes—probably Bela, either Vam or Rugaru, Constance, and Wendy, given the Career districts’ tendencies to stay away from the other districts—surrounding a figure on the ground. Judging by the pleading that reaches Dean’s ears, it’s a boy. Can’t be Rugaru; his voice is much too deep and Dean can’t imagine him ever pleading for his life. It could be Vam, but that’s unlikely as well. The Careers rarely turn on each other until the very end of the Games, at least apart from during the bloodbath when they can be fairly sure that they won’t be held responsible for their actions. Sure, if a strong Career gets taken out during the Bloodbath, the Careers will all suspect each other, but rarely will they fight amongst themselves.

That does provide an interesting loose cannon to watch out for; one of the two strongest Career tributes is running around, probably angry that his district partner has ditched him.

Dean barely hears the  _ thwip _ and wet  _ shink _ of a knife flying through the air and hitting its target. Wendy Igo’s definitely down there, then. None of the other Careers had wasted their time on small projectile weapons. They’d focused on their clubs, axes, and spears. Well, apart from Bela, that is. But she’d only stolen the gun to keep it away from everyone else. Right?

Dean hopes to God they don’t see the staircase and if they do, they don’t try to climb up it. There are hundreds of other buildings for the districts to be hiding in, after all! The odds… but the odds haven’t been in Dean’s favor since this whole catastrophe started. Maybe they never were. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re born to two Victors. Their bad luck from being reaped had combined into mega-bad-luck that Dean had inherited. Sucks to be him.

“Let’s keep going,” Dean hears the boy say. It’s definitely Rugaru, which is a bit surprising and worrying at the same time. Now Vam’s the loose cannon, and he’s got the biggest bone to pick with Dean. At the same time, he’s surprised that Bela would leave her district partner like that. Apart from the small stab wound he’d gotten from Dean, he’d looked extremely competent.

A cannon goes off and Dean winces, involuntarily making the staircase creak a little bit. He almost freezes, but John had beaten that instinct out of him years ago, so he just creeps back closer to the door on the off-chance one of the Careers heard him.

One of the girls tries the lock on the door and Dean congratulates himself on his quick thinking when she complains that it’s locked.

“Does anyone know how to pick locks?” Constance asks.

Dean hears the shuffling of feet but nobody actually speaks up. Finally Rugaru offers to kick the door down. Dean sits up sharply. He’d love for that to happen, but not when he’s only a few floors above the room in question.

“No,” Bela says sharply. She seems like the sort of person that would take control of a group like that. Maybe they’ll realize later that it’s suspicious that only that door is locked and they’ll come back to it. “We have everything we need at the moment. That would just be drawing attention to ourselves.”

_ Can’t you afford to draw attention? _ Dean wonders, lowering himself into a crouch so he can better see the motley group. He can’t attack them right now, not when it would be one against four. They must be nervous about Vam being away at the moment. This unsettles him even more than the thought of being hunted by the Careers; that something else might be hunting them too.

“Let’s go,” Bela commands, her voice tight. “Right now our priorities are Lover Boy and Cole Trenton.”

Dean frowns.  _ Lover—Oh. _ He sits up straight, the blood rushing out of his face. His confession about Jo. The Careers are looking specifically for him and Cole. There was nothing special he had seen about the District 7 boy during training, save for the muted glances he’d shot Dean’s way. He just seemed like the sort of person who would scowl at his competition, though, so Dean hadn’t thought any more about it. Maybe the Careers had been more threatened by his nine than Dean had originally thought. They’d definitely hated Dean’s eleven and show-stealing confession.

The Careers slink off. They may be worried about not drawing attention to themselves by kicking down a door, but they’re sure not worried about drawing attention to themselves by using the flame torch. To pass the time before it’s safe to leave, he tries to think of nicknames to give to Castiel, but all he can think of is ‘Cassie’, which is coincidentally also the name of a village girl from District 5. Dean had taken her to a dance in his eighth year. It’s not right to name Castiel, Castiel who’s never had a nickname before, after a girl Dean had ‘dated’ for about two weeks.

Dean knows exactly when it’s safe for him to climb down the staircase and slink off in the opposite direction as them. Thankfully they’d been headed west.  _ Cassie, Cassie, Cassie… Cal? Cas’iel _ (like how Sam had called Jo ‘Jo’na’ for a few years growing up) _ ? Castle, maybe? _

Maybe he’ll have lots of time to ponder it during these Games. Maybe he’ll be able to avoid all the fighting and let everyone else kill each other before he and Jo emerge, victorious, from whatever place they’d been holed up in.

_ Right now our priorities are Lover Boy and Cole Trenton _ , the memory whispers in Dean’s ear.

John would tell Dean to attack first. He would tell Dean to go after them before they can go after him. But Dean simply isn’t prepared to do that.

He doesn’t  _ want _ to do that.

Sam would tell Dean to survive. No matter how.

So he’ll still do it.

Just… not at this exact moment.

_ We’re going to overthrow the Capitol. We’re going to stop the Games. _

_ Look what his work’s done now. It’s a warning. _

_ We got sloppy during our last meeting. _

Sam hadn’t known what his brother and father were talking about then. But he’s not stupid, and the second he got the last puzzle piece he’d finished the picture. Dean thinks John trying to stop the Games is why Sam’s name was picked from the bowl. But that’s not possible! There are thousands of names in that bowl. Placing Sam’s just so Castiel would pull it out would be impossible. Dean must be wrong. It was just a coincidence.

The first day of the Games had been a holiday so everyone could watch. The second day, though, nothing rarely happens, so school is on. Sam had walked into school on time, wearing the same clothes he usually wears, but everything had been different. Dean hadn’t been walking with him and John was out so Sam walked alone. The entire district has been watching him warily, with pity in their eyes. Like he’s a bad luck charm. Like Dean’s already dead.

_ No, _ Sam snaps to himself, swiping a hand over his eyes just in case they start to water.  _ Dean’s fine. He will be fine. He’ll come back to me. _

Sam can’t concentrate. What if, while Mr. Wallace teaches him about multiplication, Dean gets hurt? What if something happens to Jo and Sam doesn’t even figure out until later? Lunch can’t come quickly enough. He needs to be able to watch the screen and make sure that Dean and Jo are fine.

The second the bell rings for his third period, Sam’s out the door. He doesn’t even hear Mr. Wallace calling for him.

Technically, he has third lunch, but he heads to the cafeteria with everyone in first lunch. Everyone notices but no one has the heart to force him back to his own class. They just give him a wide berth as Sam sits in the table directly in front of the screen, eyes wide as he watches the recap of what they’d missed and what’s happening now.

Sam’s heart leaps up into his throat when he sees Dean on the screen, bandaging a cut on his arm. The broadcast then changes to Jo running with a white box in her hands, her hair streaming out behind her. Her eyes are wide and Sam recognizes that look. She’s terrified.

The footage cuts out to the shot of Vam Pyre, holding a hand to his stabbed side, stumbling into the forest. Sam hopes he bleeds out for attacking Dean. If only Dean had finished him off.

Sam finds he can breathe easier when the other tributes are on the screen. It means nothing special is happening to Dean. He’s getting time to get his thoughts in order before he kills everyone. He’s going to be fine.

Just as the clock hits high noon, the Capitol’s seal appears on the screen, ushered in by the familiar Haven anthem. It’s death recap.

Dean’s face shows up first and Sam’s stomach drops. Then he realizes that it’s just because it’s a split-second clip of Dean also watching the death recap last night. He’s standing on top of a building, stars unfolding all around him. It’s a beautiful shot, if Dean wasn’t locked in an arena so he could fight to the death. This footage must have been recorded last night, but Sam can’t help but feel like it’s happening right now.

Sam barely cares as he sees Cole Trenton from District 7 pick up an axe and cut off Peter Sweeney’s hand, then his head. Rugaru Mills from District 2 impales Jin Lee with his spear at the same time as Constance Welch from the same district swings a spiked club into Rak Shasa’s head. The club’s stuck until she eventually has to put a foot on Rak’s body to wrench it out. The District 2 tributes exchange glances and Sam recognizes an alliance being formed. Maybe one that’s already formed.

Lycan Thorpe from District 8 had pounced on his partner, Lamia Greenster, and stabbed her in the chest the moment he got his hands on a knife. Sam winces as he watches. If Lycan was to win, could he go home, knowing that he’d be surrounded by friends and family of the girl he just killed?

It’s a good thing he doesn’t need to worry about that. Dean’s coming home.

Tracy Bell from District 9 was felled by Vam Pyre. Kubrick’s death was recapped, not that anyone could forget it. It was probably the first suicide in the Games in years. No doubt District 10 will be humiliated for their cowardly tribute.

Croco Tas from District 11 is also dead. Peter Sweeney had killed him by strangling before he, too, had died.

Baku Sun was also killed by Wendy Igo. He’d only been a few feet away from Dean and Sam’s throat closes up at the thought of that knife being only a few inches to the left. The girl he came with, Wraith Williams, was killed by Ava Wilson. Wraith had jumped her, probably thinking of the way Ava hadn’t been able to stop crying when she was reaped, but the District 10 girl bashed her brains in with a rock she found lying on the ground.

But Dean’s fine. Jo’s fine.

Sam lets out a relieved breath and slumps down in his seat.  _ Dean’s fine. Dean’s fine. Dean’s fine, he’s fine, he’ll be fine, he’ll come home. _ Sam misses him so much. He misses Dean hogging the blankets and bed. He misses Dean’s snores. He just misses Dean.

Watching Dean mess around with the room he’s hiding in isn’t quite the same thing. It takes Sam a little bit to realize what Dean’s doing, but once Dean steps back to admire his handiwork, Sam realizes. The next person that steps into the room Dean was hiding in will burn.

The shot changes again just as the principal steps into the cafeteria and calls for Sam. If he tries to make Sam go to class, Sam will throw the biggest fit imaginable. They shouldn’t have expected him to go to school at all while Dean is away.

Sam shoots one more glance at the screen, which is showing Lycan struggling to set up traps for whatever wildlife is living in the arena, before following the principal.

John is waiting in the principal’s office. “Come on, Sam,” is all he says, heaving himself out of the chair he’d been sitting in.

“Can we just watch?” Sam asks in a small voice, hurrying to keep up with his father’s larger strides. He likes watching with John. John always knows more than Sam does, like when Dean had said that he loved Jo and John had simply snorted and told Sam they were trying to pull something off. It reassured Sam. He thought Jo was like his sister, and he knows that nobody’s supposed to love their sister like  _ that _ .

“Yes,” John says shortly. “I don’t see why I thought you could concentrate on school when Dean’s away,” he adds with a short burst of laughter.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“I don’t want Dean to die.”

John doesn’t respond for a long time. When he does, it’s just a quick, “Me neither.” Sam had expected him to say that Dean wouldn’t die. The fact that he didn’t makes Sam’s stomach churn.

Ellen is waiting at their house by the time John and Sam get back. This is unusual only because Jo isn’t with her. Normally the two families watch the Games together so Jo and Dean can joke around and the adults can talk and try to not pay attention to the broadcast. Watching the Games is required, but  _ watching _ the Games is impossible to enforce.

The television is already on. Ava Wilson is trying to break down a door to get inside a building but she’s trying to do it without making noise. Even Sam could pick the lock on that door, and he snorts derisively.

Eventually the shot changes back to a group of four people. Sam recognizes them as the District 1 girl, both District 2 tributes, and the District 3 girl. For a brief second a shot of the District 9 boy is shown. He’s trying to light a fire behind a building, but his panicked breaths and shuffling feet are giving him away.

Once he’s killed, District 9 is down for the count. Normally their tributes last a little bit longer.

The group of tributes—Sam recognizes them as Careers—talks a bit more before they mention that their next priorities are Lover Boy and Cole Trenton. The shot pans up to reveal that Dean is crouching on the metal staircase attached to the building they’re talking right next to. He’s heard them plotting. He knows their plan. Sam gasps. He can just imagine how furious the Careers would be if they looked up and saw him. Furious—and also delighted. A pit curdles in Sam’s stomach.

“Come on, boy,” John mutters. “Get ‘em.”

But Dean doesn’t move.

The shot changes to Jo. She’d been dozing off in a tree until what sounded like a stampede wakes her. She lifts her head, blinks a few times, and turns.

There’s a wall of fire closing in on her.

Ellen says a word Sam isn’t allowed to repeat.


	12. Noisome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some explicit language in this chapter.  
As always, reviews are appreciated greatly!

Dean has been trekking north for a day by weaving between the oddly-placed buildings and occasionally ducking inside them for a respite from the glaring sun. He knows he must be very boring, knows that Gamemakers must either be planning something for him or are focused on another fight that’s going on somewhere else. Or maybe the cameras are broadcasting him, showing a tribute slowly wasting away from hunger or exhaustion or dehydration.

A solid week of eating good, rich food and having  _ enough _ to eat has gotten his body used to being able to eat. Not that his mind has forgotten what hunger feels like. Still, though, Dean’s regretting gorging himself. It gave him strength yesterday but it’s making him weak now when he thinks about the crackers and beef strips in his backpack.

Every building Dean’s come across has been uniform in an unsettling way. Even though each room’s decorations can change to represent different districts, the rooms have always had a Capitol level of idealization and comfort. For example, Dean’s fairly sure no one in District 12, the poorest District, has plush pillows, a full bed, and a shower with multiple buttons to water temperature and pressure when not even District 5 has reliably working showers. Especially when Road kids sleep on beds that are stuffed with straw and under blankets that have been gnawed through by mice and old age.

These rooms are what they  _ should _ look like. What reality should be but not what it is, because the reality isn’t that Dean’s standing in a room with beautiful black sheets, just waking up from a nice sleep and waiting for Sam to come back from wherever he’d been. No, the reality is that Dean is locked inside an arena where children are being forced to fight to the death.

In every chest in every room Dean finds the same thing: a can of food and a bottle of water. It’s a good thing he knows how to pick locks. It’s a much more reliable source of food than hunting. He’s got no idea how many animals the Gamemakers had decided to provide them with.

One thing he can’t figure out is why the Gamemakers would make this arena so vast and with so many places to hide. They’ll start to get complaints that the Games are boring, which is something that should never be allowed to happen.

Dean stifles a yawn behind his hand and pinches the skin on the inside of his arm in order to keep his eyelids from slipping down. He’ll sleep when he’s with Jo and she can watch over him. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of good times to sleep in the arena. During the night, but the Careers will be hunting and everyone will be hiding. During the day, but people will be exploring and might happen upon Dean. He doesn’t know who escaped to the woods and who went to the buildings.

There are so many buildings. The Careers will never be able to find anyone like this.

Dean hears a shuffling sound behind him. It could be a stray animal, but knowing his luck, it’s probably Bela. And she’s probably learned how to shoot a gun in the small amount of time she’s had it. Yes, that would be just Dean’s luck.

Dean turns around and is met with a fist to the face.

“Fuck!” he curses, stumbling back. His hands fly up to his lips. Surely that must have at least loosened a few teeth. He tastes blood. He must have bitten through his lip accidentally.

Cole Trenton leers at him. He shakes out the hand he’d used to punch Dean. In his other hand is a sharp axe with a blade already stained with blood. He’s going to be very good with that axe, Dean notes distantly. District 7 specializes in lumber and paper. “You aren’t careful, Winchester.”

“Look,” Dean starts, holding up his hands to show he’s unarmed. “I don’t want to do this any more than you do, Trenton.” The adrenaline coursing through his veins keeps him awake and helps him forget how weak he feels, but it will be superficial.

Cole snorts and shakes his head. “Oh, but I  _ want _ this, Winchester. I’ve wanted this for a long, long time.”

“I know you want to win,” Dean tries. The weight of his machete is heavy at his waist, a constant reminder that the weapon is right there but any sudden movement will have Cole lunging at him axe-first. “I want to, too. But I don’t want to fight you right now.”

“I’ve been tracking you ever since you took off from the bloodbath,” Cole hisses, taking a step forward. Dean steps backward. “Took me a while to find your trail, ‘cause I lost sight of you for a second while I was hacking Peter Sweeney to bits.”

_ Ah. _ Dean had been wondering how the Career had been beaten in the bloodbath. It’s not surprising, though; apart from the Career districts, District 7 is most likely to win. Their sheer strength and skill with an axe helps with that. That also explains why the Careers are looking for him. They’re probably threatened by his skill with his axe and angry he’d killed one of their own. “You’ve been tracking me? Specifically me? Why?”

Cole lets out a derisive laugh and takes another step forward that Dean counters by stepping back.

“You know the Careers are looking for us specifically, right?” Dean tries. “We could team up—”

“I would  _ never _ ally myself with you!” Cole hisses. He swipes with the axe and Dean drops and rolls to the side, ending in a crouch. “I don’t care if I live or die. I just care that I kill you.”

“Why?” Dean can’t help himself. He’s curious.

“Because your father killed mine!” Cole exclaims.

_ Wow. _ Dean cannot  _ believe _ how lucky he is. This moment is surely gaining shocked gasps from the Games, increasing bets as to who will win this fight. Winning this will gain him sponsors. The Capitol will love this revenge-feud. Cole was stupid to monologue for this long, but then again he was also dumb to not hurl the axe right into Dean’s unsuspecting back. Dean got lucky he was so obsessed with revenge.

Dean snorts. “Wow. Awfully convenient you got reaped for the one Games I volunteered for, huh?”

“I just got lucky, I suppose,” Cole snarls. To Dean’s surprise, he drops the axe and crouches, beckoning Dean to attack him with two fingers. That is… the  _ dumbest _ move Dean’s seen anyone pull in the Games. “I want this to be a fair fight,” he explains. “I want your daddy to watch you get beat fair and square. Then again, if it was your brother in the Games maybe I would have just chopped him up. It would have been a mercy—”

Dean sees red, but he knows that’s what Cole wants.  _ Sam’s not here, _ Dean reminds himself.  _ This bastard is never going to get to Sam. _ “Oh, but is that payback? Is that exactly what my dad did to your dad?”

“You’re right,” Cole admits. He draws a knife from his back pocket. It’s not unlike the serrated one Dean had used on Vam. “That’s not payback.  _ This _ is payback.”

He lunges, swiping with the knife, and Dean dodges. Cole tries to swipe at Dean’s stomach but Dean grabs his arm, twists it, and kicks him in the stomach, sending the angry tribute sprawling. “You’ve got no idea what you walked into here, did you?” Dean asks, his voice distant because of the cacophony that is his panting breaths and the blood rushing in his ears. “You’re just a boy that chops lumber. I used to wrestle. You’re strong but you’ve no idea how—”

Cole lunges again, off-balance so that Dean grabs his shoulder, chops at his hand so he drops the knife, and shoves him away again.

“You’ve no idea how to actually fight,” Dean finishes in a whisper. Maybe the cameras will pick up on it. Maybe they won’t. All he knows is that he’s going to kill this sick puppy before the chance that he’ll win ever occurs to anyone ever again. He’s never going to give Cole the chance to touch a hair on Sam’s head.

Cole lunges with his fists. He gets a good hit on the cut on Dean’s forearm, and while Dean’s flinching with pain, he gets another hit right in Dean’s eye.

Dean stumbles back and nearly falls. First his mouth hurts when he talks and now his eye is going to hurt like a bitch when he blinks. This bastard is a right… a right  _ bastard _ . “You know,” Dean starts. “I’m just spitballing here, but maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.” He spreads his fingers out in a  _ what can you do? _ gesture. It’s not exactly the best timing for it, but he needs Cole riled up.

Cole scrambles for the knife on the ground. He picks it up and spins around, probably expecting Dean to just wait for him to arm himself. No. Dean had taken advantage of his momentary lapse in judgement and lunged while his opponent had been turned around. Cole screams with anger as Dean’s body weight covers him, trapping the hand with the knife underneath his stomach.

Dean hopes that he hadn’t accidentally stabbed himself. That would be a lucky kill and wouldn’t gain him any sponsors.

“If you really wanted to kill me, then maybe you shouldn’t have relied on luck,” Dean hisses. “Maybe you shouldn’t have relied on brute strength. And maybe—”

Cole brings his head back right into Dean’s nose.  _ God, what is it with him and my face? _ Dean thinks miserably, pinching his already-bleeding nose shut and rolling off his body.

Cole twists himself up and over, slicing Dean’s cheek with the knife. It’s a move born out of brute strength and not agility. Wrestling is a combination of both.

Dean slams his fist into the boy’s face again and wrestles the knife out of his grip. Cole’s head slumps against the ground.

“Go on,” he whispers. “Do it. Show your brother you’re the same monster as your father.”

That hits Dean harder than any other blow. His hands fall to his sides as he contemplates the meaning of those words. Is he like John? Is it his fault he’s using force to win? He’s not going to become his father. But is his father the way he is because of the Games?

Cole uses the low blow to switch their positions. Now he’s the one pinning Dean to the ground. His fingers scrabble with Dean’s for the knife.

In a last-ditch attempt for his life, Dean lets go of the knife and his hands reach up to close around Cole’s throat. The cutting off of oxygen doesn’t stop his opponent, though. There’s only one way to stop the hand bringing down the knife that’s glinting as it reflects the brutal sun.

Dean meant to push Cole off of him. That’s all he meant to do.  _ But what would you have done once he was off of you? _ that traitorous, murderous voice in his head whispers. It doesn’t matter what he would have done.

A cannon goes off and Dean winces. It’s not his, is it? Is he dead? But no, he tells himself, if he was dead he wouldn’t be wondering that. He would be very much aware of the fact.

Cole’s body topples off of Dean, the knife falling out of limp fingers. It falls onto Dean’s chest, turning just enough as it falls so it doesn’t create even a scratch as it bounces off his shirt.

Dean scrambles to his feet, looking around wildly everywhere except for the body. The body with a head that’s lolling at an impossible angle. The body of the boy whose neck Dean had just snapped.

Dean can’t vomit. That would look weak in front of the cameras, he knows. So he settles for coughing—basically gagging—out blood that had run into his mouth from his bleeding nose. It doesn’t feel broken. Just very, very tender.

The cut Cole had opened on Dean’s cheek smarts. The slice on Dean’s forearm aches. The skin around it is hot and red. Dean can recognize the signs of infection easily.

“I need to find Jo,” Dean sighs, sitting down with exhaustion. He should get away from the body. It needs to be collected so it can be shipped off to his district. Surely other tributes heard the scuffle and are on their way right now.

Dean can’t bring himself to care.

He leans his head back on the side of the building (exposing his neck for anyone that wants to slit it) and closes his eyes (so someone can sneak up on him). He’s so tired… he’ll only rest for a few minutes. Giving into the temptation, Dean soothes his rumbling stomach and eats half a strip of the beef jerky and one cracker.

A faint rumble reaches Dean’s ears and he scrunches up his face when the faint smell of smoke reaches his nose. Someone else must be attempting to building to build a fire.

A rat skitters over his foot and Dean flinches away, eyes opening with irritation.

Another rat runs by him and Dean rushes to his feet. He wouldn’t put it past these rats to be muttations. Maybe they’re chasing after some of the tributes to eat them. But if that was the case, wouldn’t they try to attack him too? Or maybe they’re running from tributes.

Dean looks up as a thunderous crash echoes through the arena. The ground shakes under his feet. That’s not tributes, not unless tributes got hold of explosives. That’s…

Dean looks up slowly as one of the tall buildings directly in front of him catches fire.

_ They’re calling you the Flaming Sword. _

Dean starts to back away. The air is suddenly filled with smoke as the wave of fire, too large and uniform to be anything but man-made, catches the building directly to his right.

The fire’s coming from the north. It’s destroying everything in its path. No wonder the Gamemakers made the arena so large in the beginning. They’re going to narrow it down, catastrophe by catastrophe, until there’s less than two feet of space left between the last two tributes.

How is Dean supposed to find Jo when the northern part of the arena is destroyed? They never counted on that during their planning.

He turns and runs.

The world has transformed to flame and smoke. Windows explode above Dean’s head from the built-up heat inside each building, but Dean just covers his head with his hands and continues. When it becomes too much, he pulls his shirt up above his mouth to filter the air.

He can’t remember the memory now or he’ll die. If he thinks for one second he’s anywhere other than the arena he’ll die, and he knows it. Surviving requires every instinct and skill available, and being locked in a flashback is hardly the way to achieve that.

He tries his best to follow the rats as they flee from the fire. Their sense of direction will be much better than his own. But they are faster, so much faster than Dean. They fly across the ground while Dean’s bootsteps hit so harshly and loudly he must be causing his own earthquake.

Running. Burning. Panting. Crying. Is this how Dean’s going to go out? Fleeing from man-made smoke right after killing one of the most formidable opponents in this year’s Games? Struggling to stay aware of the moment he’s in?

At one point Dean runs straight into the side of a building, because God forbid the Gamemakers map out the city in a gridded pattern. No, the odd placement makes twists and turns that Dean’s streaming eyes can’t make out through the smoke. Sure, it would make the Career’s job to track down and kill their opponents easier, but it would also make Dean’s fleeing easier.

He’s almost out of the fire, he thinks, because the building to his side is still standing and the smoke is a tiny bit less oppressive than it had been five yards back, when he trips over a bundle laying in the middle of the street.

Dean barely saves his head from hitting the ground, which would surely result in a concussion or at least unconsciousness. And that would mean instant death. He raises his head, blinking blearily to get the smoke out of his eyes. He’d tripped over a body. It’s not Cole’s body, though; Dean left that behind buildings and buildings back.

It’s the body of little Krissy Chambers.

Dean crawls over to the unconscious form. She’s small, smaller than Sammy even (Dean wonders if her father is watching right now, fists clenched as he expects Dean to kill his daughter). To his shock, he sees the rise and fall of her chest.  _ She’s still alive _ .

Dean looks up. The buildings are still crashing to the ground. Debris could easily hit her, trapping her or killing her immediately. The decision he makes isn’t smart, but when was she ever a threat to him? He’d sacrificed himself for his brother and she’s just as young as Sam had been.

Dean stands up. He only gets the strength to do so, instead of lying down and providing a little bit of comfort to the little girl by dying beside her, by thinking of his family watching him. John. Sam. Ellen. Bobby. Jo’s still counting on him, even though she can’t see him (but wasn’t she caught up in the fire, too, considering they were supposed to meet up at the north and she had a headstart on him?). Dean realizes with some surprise that he’s also counting Charlie and Castiel. He doesn’t think their affection for him was fake.

He turns his head to the side and vomits. Vomits for what he did to Cole, vomits for what he’ll have to do to other children before he makes it out of the arena, vomits because of what Krissy has to endure at the same age as Sam.

He washes out the foul taste with a sip of water that cools his aggravated throat.  _ One minute _ , Dean promises himself.  _ One minute until I keep going _ . One minute until he keeps going to where the Gamemakers had shepherded him. Surely he’ll find more people with vendettas against him. Or the Careers. Or whatever new monster the Capitol’s thought of now.

And so, not because anyone is watching but because Krissy doesn’t deserve this because nobody does, Dean picks her up. He throws her over his right shoulder and keeps stumbling away.

As long as a cannon doesn’t sound off, he’s fine. She’s fine.


	13. Operose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review—it always makes my day. Also, happy holidays!

Dean wakes up, which is strange solely because he doesn’t remember falling asleep. The first thing he notices is that he aches all over. The second is that certain parts of him also sting terribly. The third is that someone is dabbing a wet piece of fabric on his forehead.

It feels good—insanely good; Dean thinks he might still be stuck in the fire because of how hot he is—but then he remembers that there is a finite supply of food and water. He screws up his face and tries to tell the person to stop, but taking in the extra amount of air needed to talk makes his lungs feel brittle and very close to bursting. It also informs Dean that he feels like someone stabbed him in the stomach. Except the pain is more on the surface of his skin and a lot more unbearable.

Dean’s been stabbed before. He hadn’t been a fan.

This is worse.

“Shh,” a little voice says right by Dean’s face.

Dean tries to ask what happened, but all that comes out is “Wuh ha’end?” Whoever’s taking care of him seems to understand, though.

“I’m not really sure,” the voice says. It’s definitely female but not Jo. Dean tries to think of who would be taking care of him apart from Jo. “I woke up from the jostling as you were carrying me away from the fireballs.”

_ Fireballs? _ Dean wonders briefly. Yes, it’s coming back to him now; he’d barely picked up Krissy before the balls of fire had started to attack them too. He’d started to run but it had been hard going with the girl cradled in his arms. All that he can remember after that is screaming, heat, hissing noises, and then… Krissy had woken up and started to run with him, which made going a lot easier. Until the fireballs had died down. Dean had thought they were safe until he’d looked back to make sure and had seen a fireball headed straight for Krissy’s head. So he’d stepped in front of it.

And then he woke up.

His stomach is burnt, he knows that. And tears are still weeping from his eyes to get the smoke out. He can feel the skin sticky around them. But apart from his stomach, which is screaming, he doesn’t seem to have suffered any major injuries.

Dean hates burns. He hates all kinds of them. They’re the worst kind of pain, in his opinion. Not even slicing and bruises and bleeding hurt him more than the terrible pain that makes Dean want to bring his knees up to his chest and keen. Except that would probably hurt his stomach more.

So he’ll just lie here in pain until Krissy finishes him off.

“I’m going to put cream on your stomach now,” another voice says. This voice he knows.

Dean cracks open one eye with a lot of effort; they feel glued shut. “Jo?”

“Yep,” she replies. “You found me, just like we planned.”

Dean snorts, letting the eye fall shut again. “Not exactly like we planned.” His eyelids feel so heavy. He could fall asleep here, even with the screaming pain in his stomach. Surprising what someone can put up with while tired.

“No, not exactly,” she agrees. “I found you on the ground, your shirt on fire, while Krissy tried to put it out. Good thing, too, or she would’ve never gotten you inside. What do you eat for breakfast, bricks? You weigh a ton.”

“You good?” he checks, too tired to rise to the bait. To even acknowledge the jab. “Both of you?” Dean tries to sit up but that makes it feel like his skin is being torn apart and not by knives, so he stops.

“Yes, thanks to you,” Krissy answers. “I’ll check outside again.” The floor by Dean’s head creaks as she stands up and pads away.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Jo says. “You would’ve woken up angry and confused if I had started to put the ointment on your stomach. But now you’ve got to stay still.”

“Ointment?”

“I grabbed the first-aid kit you wanted me to,” she says shortly. “Should work well. It’s Capitol technology, after all. But we sort of need to hurry this up, so sit still.”

Dean manages to crane his neck up just enough to see what Jo’s doing. She’s pushed his shirt up, exposing the burnt skin underneath. None of the skin is blackened, but it is bright red and blistered.

Jo dabs a little bit of it onto his stomach and it’s all Dean can do to stop himself from crying out. The pain is even worse the initial pain of being burnt. He lets his head hit the ground, hoping for a bit of pain somewhere other than his stomach to distract himself.

After an eternity of burning, Jo’s finished. Too late, Dean remembers to ask: “You’re sure no nightlock?”

“It hadn’t been opened before me,” she answers. Not that the Gamemakers couldn’t put nightlock in there just for fun, but the Capitol wouldn’t find that as amusing. “Are you okay? Let me check your temperature.”

Dean feels Jo’s lips on his forehead, and then her cheek. Then she’s barely breathing the words, “Don’t forget the show.”

_ The show? The—oh. _ “Thanks,” Dean replies. “For saving my life.” He’s never been very interested in theatre, but he’s gotten very good at acting. Maybe through all the lies to teachers about bruises, or to shopkeepers as to whether or not he knows where that last piece of bread went, or John about if he let Sammy out while he was gone.

“You’re my best friend. Of course I would.”

“Your—yeah.  _ Best friend. _ ”

Jo sighs. “Dean—” She leans away from him, actual worry tainting her expression. She’s not faking it, Dean realizes.  _ Good _ . He doesn’t want to lose his close relationship with Jo no matter what happens. No matter what happens in the arena, he’s not going to kill her and she’s not going to kill him. She’ll always be his little sister. “You’re injured. Can we talk about this later?”

“No, it’s cool,” Dean grunts. The pain is actually getting better, he realizes. “I confess my feelings for you on national television and you don’t care. It’s fine, though, okay? If you still want to be friends, that’s good enough for me.” He reaches one hand up and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. The rest of her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. It’s a first, and he wants to tease her about it; she almost never ties up her hair.

“I never said I wanted to be friends,” she says carefully. Dean can hear the gasps of shock from the Capitol.

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t want pity—”

Then Jo’s lips are on his, her hand running through his hair, and Dean wants to laugh at how ridiculous this is. How dumb the Capitol must be for falling for this act. Thankfully before he can actually laugh, Krissy interrupts the lovefest with a forced cough.

Jo pulls back, forcing a blush to her face that even Dean couldn’t rival. She sits back and pulls a knife out of her boot. Dean’s not surprised she’d managed to get one already, but… he frowns and looks closer. That knife looks very familiar. “You… they let you bring that in?”

Jo smirks and admires her father’s knife. “More like they couldn’t get it off me. I’ll die before anyone takes this from me. You know that. And after that I’ll be buried with this knife.”

Dean winces at the reminder that they could die any moment and tries to make light of the serious moment by joking, “You wouldn’t even give it to me?”

“I think you’ve got enough knives.” Ah. So she’s looked through his bag. “And I hardly think one knife will help you remember me.”

“I’d do it all on my own,” Dean reassures her.

Krissy interrupts them by gasping. She’d been looking through a window but now she turns and flattens herself against the wall right by said window. “They’re back.”

“What’s back?” Dean asks, sitting up straighter as the pain disappears rapidly. When he looks down at his stomach, the red is more muted. Some of the blisters have already disappeared. The Capitol truly does have magic at its fingertips. If only they’d give some of their resources to the districts.

“The attack only stopped because they drove some of us together,” Jo finally answers. Dean had assumed as much. Maybe they’d expected Dean to kill Krissy, or Dean and Jo to give a big show. But now that it’s apparent neither of those things will happen—although, Dean touches his lips and thinks maybe they would have given a show if nobody else had shown up—obviously other tributes have shown up too.

“Who is it?”

Jo and Krissy exchange glances until Krissy says slowly, “The Careers.” The words unroll from her tongue like a carpet. A deadly carpet made of spikes, bloodthirst, and one gun.

A carpet that Dean led right to Jo and Krissy. A carpet that’s on the hunt for him and only him now that Cole’s dead. Surely they’ve seen the death recap by now; the sun is high in the sky of the next morning. Dean had been out for a while, or maybe he’d been running from the fire for longer than he’d thought. He doesn’t suppose that he’d be lucky enough to learn that Vam died overnight or something.

He’s not. Krissy delivers the anticipated news with a small frown.

He stands up with more ease than he’d anticipated. Even though he’s eaten nothing for at least twelve hours, Dean feels weirdly rejuvenated. “All right. You guys get out. I’ll handle this.”

Jo snorts. “You’re joking.”

Dean can almost hear the coos and exclamations at how chivalrous he’s being, putting himself in danger for Jo and Krissy. Maybe the cameras do go both ways. Or maybe he’s going crazy.

Dean points at the window. “Look at that.” The building directly next to the metal staircase is laughably close and short enough that Dean could jump onto it. “This whole arena is like a crazy obstacle course, right? And I know you’re good at those, but the Careers are after me. They’ll go after you but they won’t  _ chase _ you if it was a choice between me and you guys.”

Yeah, he’s probably going crazy.

It doesn’t matter. He locks eyes with Krissy as he bends down to her level. The girl is solemn and meets his gaze steadily. There’s no hint of immaturity that Dean sometimes sees in Sam’s eyes. This girl grew up poorer, harder, with no big brother and Victor’s earnings to help her. She grew up quicker. And Dean can’t help but wonder if that was necessarily a  _ bad _ thing. This little girl knows exactly what’s going on.

And she hates it.

But maybe it’s best that Sam doesn’t hate his surroundings. If he doesn’t get involved in the rebellion business personally, then Dean should be able to protect him. He’ll demand an audience with President Naomi personally, promise her anything, if it keeps Sam safe and out of the Games that their parents had survived. Out of the noose their mother hadn’t.

“Stay with Jo, okay, Krissy?” Dean orders. “And Jo…” He lifts the amulet, Sam’s gift, from his neck and tosses it to her. “Give that back to me next time I see you, all right?”

Jo nods and slips it over her own neck.

All the Careers jerk their heads up when Dean steps out onto the landing of the metal staircase. They shift, trying their best to appear dangerous, but the only person that really threatens Dean is Bela. Wendy could throw her knives and Constance could hurl her club, but the only weapon making it all the way up to Dean and not clattering off the metal mesh is a bullet. Even then, it would be a stroke of luck for it to pass through the small metal holes.

Rugaru kicks the door again and that settles the first question Dean had been asking himself. Thank goodness Jo and Krissy had had the good sense to lock the door. They’d also had the good sense to fold up the ladder that would let the Careers climb up the staircase. It dangles above their heads tauntingly, just out of reach. If Jo was down there, she’d be able to climb up the unevenly-bricked wall and pull it down. Dean suspects Krissy would be able to, too. But the Careers are all very thick and very down to earth.

Dean’s definitely not as slim as Jo. But he is very good at climbing. And he is all the way up here. And they’re all the way down there.

To throw them off guard, he calls down, “Hello.”

The Careers all exchange confused glances but nobody responds.

“How’s everything with you?” Dean asks.

They don’t look much better than him, to be honest. Bela’s curled hair is singed and one patch looks completely burnt. Wendy Igo’s face is smeared with soot and he can hear her rattling lungs even up as high as he is. He’s honestly surprised she’s still running with them; he’d not want  _ that _ as one of his allies. Unless it was Jo, of course.

Constance looks the best of all of them. She’s probably the fastest runner. And Rugaru’s hair is ruffled, his jacket gone, and one of the sleeves of his shirt completely burnt off. His shoulder is burnt as well, but not as badly as Dean’s stomach was. He was probably only grazed by a fireball. Fire is not Rugaru’s friend in these Games, it would seem.

_ They’re calling you the Flaming Sword. _

Well, fire’s hardly been kind to Dean in these Games either.

Finally Rugaru calls back, “Well enough, I suppose. And you?”

The crowd will just love this, Dean knows. He shrugs. “A little warm for my taste, to be honest.”

Wendy barks out a laugh. Constance raises an eyebrow in her direction but says nothing. It’s tension that Dean can’t exploit, unfortunately.

“The air’s better up here, though,” Dean taunts. “Come on up, if you want.”

“Think I will,” Rugaru replies.

“Here, Rugaru,” Bela says softly, and tries to hand him the gun. The silver metal glints into Dean’s eye, burning the image into his retinas. That’s  _ his _ gun!  _ His _ bullets!

“No,” Rugaru shakes his head. Bela stuffs the gun back into her waistband. Now if only Dean can figure out how to get it… “I’ll do better with my club.” Dean can see the weapon he was fighting over with Vam at his side. He might have gotten out worse in that fight, but he’s also the one with allies. The one with the weapon.

If only Rugaru had taken the gun. Dean could have taken advantage of having the higher ground and, once his opponent was close enough, could have killed him easily. But things never work out the way he wants them to, do they?

Luckily, none of them can jump up high enough to lower the ladder. The thought of climbing up the wall doesn’t occur to any of them, apparently, and neither does standing on someone’s shoulders for the added height. Lucky for Dean, either way.

Face flushed with anger and embarrassment at being shown up in front of the Capitol—because there’s no way the cameras aren’t broadcasting this right now—Bela pulls out the gun. Before Dean can register, she’s fumbling with the safety until it’s clicked off. She points right at Dean and pulls the trigger.

Dean can’t help the harsh bark of laughter that escapes his mouth when the shot goes wide (even though that’s wasted ammunition) and Bela stumbles and falls on her ass from the kickback. It definitely takes some getting used to. And she’s not going to get that time or those resources in order to get good enough.

She gets even redder, though Dean hadn’t thought that was possible. “Nice try, tomato,” he mocks. “Gee, I’m shaking in my boots. What are you gonna do next? Shoot one of your allies on accident?” He can’t help but think that if that silver gun was in his hand right now, he’d be able to finish them all off before they could say another word.

Wendy twirls one of her knives around, hungry eyes watching his every move. He won’t be able to put off the jump for long or one of her knives will hit him dead-on if he gives her the smallest correct angle. When Dean climbs up onto the fence that stops him from falling off the staircase, he’ll have to be quick to jump.

“You know,” Dean says casually, “right now you look like the weakest one in the group, Bela.”

She scoffs.

“It’s true!” he insists. “They’ve got all the weapons they’re fantastic at, but you don’t even know how to use the one you’ve got. Sure, it’ll end a fight, but only if you know how to use it. And you…” Dean gestures and scoffs, admiring his work as she goes even redder. He’s going for tomato at the very least. Maybe he’ll get her head to burst. That would be a first for the Games. “Well, let’s just say I’d feel safer being aimed at than standing  _ next to  _ the target. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Oh, and you do know how to use it?” Constance finally asks, sneering. “You try to act all tough with your Victor parents—” she adopts a puppy-dog look. “Oh, I’m sorry,  _ parent _ —”

Dean’s hand spasms on the railing he’s holding.

“—but we all know you’re just as pathetic as the rest of them because you’re not one of  _ us _ ,” she finishes, her lip curled like she’s just delivered a cutting-edge insult. Like being born in a certain District means automatically that you’re better than someone else. That’s rich coming from someone who came from nobody-parents and will be dead soon.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart,” Dean smiles. He doesn’t see any other way to shock his opponents and gain the few precious seconds he needs to jump across to the other building. Even if it loses his advantage of having a hidden talent. He can imagine the shock that will erupt in the Capitol as people bet on whether he’s bluffing or not when he says: “See, I do know how to use that gun.”

Dean brings one leg up to the railing, grabs the beam holding the landing above his head up, and brings the other leg up. Wendy rushes to find a good angle and he jumps.

For one heart-stopping second, he’s hovering over open air (if he was a puppet, his strings would be cut and he’d go plummeting down, dead upon impact and it would be a blessing, but he’s just a boy and he’s only falling slightly). This is probably a bad time for Dean’s stomach to remind him that he hates heights. Oh well, too late now, tell him the next time he jumps from rooftop to rooftop. Or better, don’t.

He hits the rooftop and rolls to soften the impact. Frantically, he checks himself for knives. He’s not bleeding anywhere, but Wendy had landed a knife right into his backpack. It’ll be just his luck if she’d nicked his water bottle. Just the extra drama the Capitol would like to watch.

“Come on!” he hears Bela shout and the pattering of feet. Dean can’t stay on this rooftop forever; the door at the bottom is unlocked and they’ll corner him eventually. Plus, he hasn’t drawn the Careers far enough away that Jo and Krissy will be able to escape. He looks around frantically for another low rooftop. Hopefully he’s getting away from the fireballs and however they’d been shot at him.

But if there’s one thing Dean’s learned from the Games, it’s that every section in the arena has a threat.

He’s running away from the fire. And into what?

It doesn’t matter. Dean spots another rooftop, only a foot or so taller than the one he’s on and very close, and he starts to run at it.  _ Run, leap, don’t die. Run, leap, don’t die. Run, leap, don’t die. _

Dean runs. He leaps. He hits the side of the building with a grunt as it knocks all the air out of his lungs and sends pain shooting through his stomach as the bricks rub against his sore burnt skin.

There’s a sharp hissing sound and Dean panics.  _ The fireballs _ —!

But a knife appears, quivering, just an inch away from Dean’s head as he clings with all his might to the side of the building. He chances a look down. Wendy looks furious and draws her arm back again, but Rugaru stills her with a hand, shouting about waiting until she has a better angle, so Dean heaves himself up and over the side. He yanks the knife out of the brick, mentally thanking her for the weapon. He’s gotten extremely lucky these Games with how many knives he’s been able to collect. Makes him apprehensive about using them. Surely the Gamemakers have been watching, counting him stock up on the weapons, and are rubbing their fat little hands together at the thought of rendering him weaponless again. He doesn’t even want to think about what stunt they’ll pull in order to do that.

And he won’t need to. His next obstacle is staring him right in the face.


	14. Kuebiko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review—they always make my day.  
I hope everyone enjoyed their Thanksgiving breaks, if they had one. Remember, students, winter break is only a few weeks away. (Phew!)

Muttations come in many shapes and sizes. They started out as regular animals that were mutated by the Capitol and combined with other, similar animals for the optimal weapon. They’re mutated mongrels, hence the name, and a large part of the reason the Capitol was able to win the war and establish dominance over the districts again. After the war, the Capitol removed the dangerous mutts around themselves so no one would get hurt but didn’t bother with the ones by the districts. They’re yet another incentive for people to stay within the fences.

Jabberjays are birds were originally created to spy on enemy conversations by accurately mimicking human voices and conversations, but too soon the districts caught on to that trick and were used to turn the tables on the Capitol. The Capitol released them into the wild to die once they were useful anymore, but they mated with mockingbirds and created mockingjays. Jabberjays aren’t deadly and neither are mockingbirds. They’re probably the only mutts that aren’t.

Trackerjackers are another kind of mutt. Like jabberjays, the killer wasps were spawned in labs and strategically placed so as to wreak the most havoc to the rebels. The poison they inject into their victims by way of stinging is horrifically painful and can cause hallucinations that lead to madness. Most of the time it takes more than one sting for someone to succumb to either madness or death, but depending on the size of both the mutt and the person getting stung, death can result after just one sting. They also chase after people who disturb their nests, hence the ‘tracker’ part of their name.

Dean has seen some other variations of mutts in previous Games, but none that have names. Butterflies that can sting, monkeys that have switchblade-like claws, flesh-eating rats—if it’s an animal, chances are the Capitol has, or at least will, mutated it. Probably into something painful and deadly. They love to brag about their weapons. It won’t be long before they’ve started to mutate people too, and who will be able to stop them?

No other muttations can compare to hellhounds, though. Dogs as big as people with jet-black fur, able to track scents for miles, razor-sharp claws, hind legs so powerful they can jump as high as the Cornucopia and outrun even the fastest horse, fur so thick it just swallows up small knives and takes multiple heavy weapons to even scratch it. They’re anyone’s nightmare.

And Dean’s staring one right in the face.

For one tense second, he and the dog look each other in the eyes. Maybe it won’t attack him, right? Maybe it won’t—

The hellhound snarls and scratches at the concrete roof. It's nearly five meters away from Dean but he's seen them leap that distance in less than a second from other games.

Dean turns tail and jumps right back onto the roof he’d come from. Maybe that’s the very edge of their section and it won’t follow him. Maybe he’ll get lucky for the first time in days. Maybe—

The hellhound leaps after him.

A plethora of curses fall from Dean’s mouth as he scrambles toward the door that leads to the building’s staircase. Gravel and loose rocks churn under his shoes, nearly making him lose balance. Behind him is the sound of claws scratching at the concrete and goring large cuts in the material as it folds like butter. The hellhound barks, a sound so loud it nearly stops Dean’s heart, and he dives into the staircase, knocking his bad arm in the process, and slams the door shut, locks it. He doesn’t wait around to see if the door will hold. It won’t.

He throws himself down the stairs, sometimes just jumping down four or five at a time. He ignores the way his lungs screaming for breath. He ignores the way his forearm is aching  _ yet again _ (he should have had Jo put some of that medical cream on the cut as well, but oh well; when he finds her later he’ll ask her to do so. Infection is dangerous in the Games but he’d been distracted).

_ Pant. Stomp. Pant. Stomp. Pant. Stomp. Pant. Stomp. Pant. Stomp. Pant. Stomp. Pant. Stomp. _

Five more floors to go.

For a moment he considers ducking into one of the single rooms each floor of the building is made of, but then he thinks about what he would do if the hound followed him into the room. He'd be trapped. Sure, Dean has a few knives, and if he gets in a few good swipes he might even kill the hound. But nobody ever comes out of a close-range fight with a hellhound better than the hound.

Despite his panting breaths, the blood rushing in his ears, and the thumping of his feet as they hit the ground, he can hear the hellhound scratch at the door, throw itself at it, and eventually crash right through it. He can hear the exact moment the door crumbles and the hound howls triumphantly. If the other tributes hadn’t known that there’s a hound, surely they will now.

Dean’s two floors down—four more to go—when the hound breaks through and he wishes he was miles away. The hound will cover that distance in half the time Dean had. He can only hope the smooth surface of the stairs and the sharp turns will buy him a couple seconds.

Even floors away, he can hear the horrible grunts and the sharp sound of claws on the floor the hellhound makes. It slams into something, probably the wall from a sharp turn, and the growl it emits sends shivers up Dean’s spine.

Dean spots a spare chair and topples it behind him. It won’t make any difference; the hound will just jump over it, but maybe it’ll trip it up. Maybe. Maybe he’ll get lucky. But when has he ever gotten lucky?

He could escape to the metal staircase on the outside of the building. He could crouch on that and listen as the hound runs by him and let the other tributes finish the hound off. But what if they can’t? What if it corners him on the narrow metal walkway? His knives wouldn’t be enough to kill it, he doesn’t think. Worse, what if it kills all the tributes and goes off to hunt the others? It would be Dean’s fault if the hound gets Jo or Krissy.

Besides, the hound could just follow him out onto the metal staircase too. It's less probable than cornering him in a room. Still, though, the thought that Dean will be able to outrun a hellhound is laughable.

The hound barks again, the sound deafening as it echoes around the stairs. Dean leaps down the next floor of stairs altogether—two more to go—using the handrails to swing himself around. He tries to ignore the shockwaves of pain that radiate up his shins as he lands.

Dimly, he recognizes the sounds of people shouting and the pounding of feet, besides his own, of course. Are the tributes so dim they haven’t noticed the hound howling? Are they seriously trying to attack Dean right now?

Dean swings himself around and down another flight of stairs—one more to go—and stops short at the sight of the Careers standing just below him on the staircase. For a moment everyone blinks, stunned. Dean’s surprised they’re trying to attack him and not running from the hound. The Careers are stunned he’d decided to confront them, outnumbered as he is.

There’s the sound of a massive thump and the Careers turn their gazes to up. It would be comical, except— “Hellhound!” Dean bawls and uses his momentum to crash through the ranks, leading the charge away from the monster. If the others weren’t so panicked, they might take advantage of his turned back, but even Wendy Igo is rendered panicked at the mere mention of the deadliest muttation the Capitol’s produced. She and Constance overtake him easily and bolt out the door. Rugaru’s just behind them and holds it open for Dean. Well, Bela; since they're allies, but Dean just happens to be there too and not even Rugaru is callous enough to lock him in a room with an angry hellhound.

In another life, maybe, he and Dean could have been friends; he’s intelligent and obviously caring if he’s bothering to stop and wait for Bela. He’s probably not waiting for Dean, but enemy of my enemy, right? It just wasn’t the right time. Too late to get to know each other, now that they’re both going to be ripped to shreds by the hellhound.

Bela stumbles after them, fumbling with the weapon in her waistband.

“Don’t waste your ammunition!” Dean barks. “You don’t know how to use it—give it to me!” He’s struck with a violent sort of hope. A gun could take care of the hellhound. If he hits it in the eye. Well, a lot of things could take the hound out if you hit it in the eye. But a bullet will finish the job rather than a knife, which will probably only get the hound angrier if you don't stab it hard enough.

Bela shakes her head resolutely, eyeing his outstretched hand like he’s trying to hand her nightlock. “What, and let you kill us all?”

Dean gapes at her. “What—the hound is going to kill us! Unless you give me that gun—”

“Bela—” Rugaru tries but the hound appears, slamming right into the wall of the first landing. Apparently racing down six floors hadn’t helped it perfect the art of taking sharp turns. All the crash has done is made it very angry.

For a moment Dean's mouth falls open as he looks at the animal. Seeing it on the television is one thing. Seeing it in person is a whole other feat, and it should be an accomplishment in itself that he doesn't faint right at the spot.

The hound's fur is black on television, but in real life it's not just black. It’s an  _ absence _ of color. It's like the hellhound is just a black hole. A black hole with pearly white teeth and pink gums. Dean stares at those teeth. The smallest one is the size of his middle finger and looks to be able to bite through metal. He's never seen it happen during previous Games, but you never know.

The gun falls out of Bela’s shaking hands and Dean dives for it. His hands close around the weapon— _ his _ weapon—and he’s already loading the chamber, aiming, and firing before he’s stopped sliding across the smooth floor. He can imagine the uproar that’s happening in the Capitol right now.

The hound had started to leap as Dean dove, but the impact of the bullet affects it. It changes course very suddenly midair and lands heavily.

The bullet hits the hound exactly where Dean had wanted it to. Right in the shoulder. That should slow it down, but he can’t take it out without help, and he especially can’t take it down from where he’s laying on the ground.

“Come  _ on _ !” Dean becomes distantly aware of Rugaru bellowing. He scrambles up and away from the enraged muttation. The hound barks after his retreating back but Dean simply dives out of the door and pivots back around, gun pointed with steady hands (how can they be steady, he wonders, because he’s more terrified than he’s ever been in his life) at the door. Rugaru slams the door shut with a sigh of relief.

“Let’s get out of here,” Constance says shakily. None of the tributes have any intention of killing the others at this present moment. They’re too shaken and relieved by their brush with death. Apparently escaping hellhounds can create truces even with the most bloodthirsty killers. At the present moment they’re just too preoccupied with getting away from the hound’s section of the arena.

“Hold on,” Wendy says slowly. “Where’s—”

Bela screams behind them. Something hits the door (from the inside) that Rugaru had closed, the hellhound barks and snarls (the sounds of a predator), and then the screams cut off too quickly. They’re replaced with horrible gurgling sounds like someone choking (on their own blood).

And a cannon goes off.

Dean and Rugaru whirl around. At first their expressions are identical; shock and horror. But Dean’s expression melts into a fierce determination. Rugaru wears a mask of quiet resignation. They’d been the ones to shut the door and lock Bela in there.

“Don’t—” Rugaru starts when Dean moves to open the door. But Dean can’t hear him over the rushing of blood in his ears, making his face feel hot and his feet strangely weightless. The door crashes open, making everyone cringe, but the hellhound is gone. The only thing left in the room is an alarming amount of blood on the walls and a crumpled form on the floor.

Dean’s feet give out. He falls, still clutching the gun like that will be able to save him, like it could still save Bela, like it can save him from the rest of the arena. But his arm is aching, his lungs are sore from breathing in smoke, and a girl his own age was torn apart by a monster that shouldn’t exist.

He’d been the one to lock her in with the hound. He’d killed her. This is his and Rugaru’s shared kill.

Dean doesn’t hear the muffled talking behind him. He doesn’t feel Rugaru pat him on the back—a short moment of shared understanding.

He doesn’t see Ava Wilson watching the whole exchange from a safe perch high in the sky.

He just… stares. He doesn’t see.

Sam had been wound up so tight during the hellhound encounter he’d thought he was about to snap (and he would have, if Dean had been hurt). But the hellhound disappears, heading back up the stairs at a much slower pace now that it’s killed a tribute and gotten injured. Surely it’ll reappear the next time someone enters its section. Dean’s been watching the Games long enough to know about sections, right?

_ He does, _ Sam reminds himself.  _ Dean knows everything. _ Dean had been the only person to hurt the hound instead of senselessly running or freezing. A bubble of pride swells in Sam’s chest at the thought. Everyone else had been paralyzed with fear and running away, but Dean had kept a cool head and  _ injured a hellhound _ . 'Flaming Sword' indeed.

And now he's got a gun!

"Dean's coming home," Sam says for the first time aloud, tasting the words on his tongue. They taste sweet. They taste like relief. They taste like home. They allow him to unwind, to relax more and more as each tribute flees the scene of Bela’s death without picking any more fights.

John looks at Sam sharply. "It's too soon to say for sure, Sam."

"But he is!" Sam insists. "Dean  _ promised _ . And now he's got a gun! He hurt a hellhound! He'll be getting so many sponsors—”

“Sam,” John interrupts with a growl. “You shouldn’t get your hopes up.” And he gets up and leaves Sam sitting there on the couch, mouth open wide with indignation.

“It’s okay,” Ellen says from across the room. Her voice, already husky, is even raspier from the copious amounts of alcohol she’s chugging. “Dean will be fine. Your daddy trained him up well.”

Sam smiles up at her. She’s an adult. If she says Dean will be okay, then he’ll definitely be okay.

He hears the door open and the low hum of voices. Ellen gets up to greet whoever’s arrived.

Sam doesn’t bother to take his eyes off the television as it changes from the boring shots of Dean sitting down to the other tributes. The group of the three Careers left are just walking, so the shot quickly changes to show Dae Mon and Mary Worthington from District 4. They’re holed up together in a building. Dae is trying to bust open a chest by hitting the lock with a large rock. He must have figured out that there are supplies in the chests, just like Dean had.

Mary Worthington puts her hand on her stomach just as it rumbles. Obviously some of the tributes haven’t been doing as well as Dean.

The shot then changes to Lycan Thorpe from District 8. He looks like he’s stalking something. For a moment, Sam thinks he’s hunting an animal, though he hasn’t seen any large animals in the arena. Then the camera pans out to show Krissy Chambers and Jo.

“Ellen?” Sam calls, his voice cracking. “Jo’s on.”

Ellen enters the room hastily. Ruby’s right behind her. While Ellen just stands behind the couch, knuckles white as she watches her daughter on the screen, Ruby walks around to sit next to Sam.

“So Dean clipped a hellhound, huh?” she asks quietly, brushing her stick-straight blonde hair out of her face. She’s obviously from the Town, not the Road. Maybe she’s even from another district. She’s so much brighter than most of the people in District 5. “That’s very impressive.”

“He’s the Flaming Sword,” Sam says in agreement, nodding.

Ruby cocks her head. “Where’d you hear that?”

“I heard some people in town saying it,” Sam explains.

“That’s good,” she murmurs. “That’s very good.”

“What’s good?”

Ellen’s gasp cuts Ruby off from responding. Sam’s head whips around. Lycan had lunged at the girls. Krissy Chambers goes flying and hits the side of a building— _ hard _ . Jo draws her knife, quick as a whip, and lowers herself into a crouch. Her eyes narrow into angry slits as Lycan brandishes his own knife. A weird noise filters through the television and after a second Sam realizes that Lycan is  _ growling _ .

“Ellen, is she okay?” John asks, entering the room. Azazel is right behind him. It must be another rebellion meeting.

Ellen doesn’t respond, her wide eyes glued to the television screen. Lycan lunges, waving the knife wildly, and Jo ducks out of the way. Lycan might be big and strong but Jo is strong, right? Still, Sam stiffens as he watches the fight.

Lycan chases after Jo, but she’s always one step in front of him. Whether he be throwing punches or waving the knife, the only thing that happens is Jo runs. At one point he clips her chin with his fist, but Jo rolls with the impact and sweeps her feet under his. Lycan hits the ground hard.

John puts his hand over Sam’s eyes just as Jo brings the knife down.

“Dad!” Sam complains, pulling the fingers away, but the damage is done. Lycan is already dead. Jo is wiping the knife clean of blood on his shirt and a cannon fires. “Come on!”

“Go to your room, Sam,” John says gruffly, avoiding his eyes.

“Oh, what’s the harm, Johnny?” Azazel asks, grinning at Sam. Those weird golden eyes blink at him like coins shining in the sun. “Soon everyone will know about what we’re planning. It’s better if he’s in the know already.”

Sam swallows under the intense gaze the Peacekeeper is leveling at him.

“Sam will play a key part in the rebellion,” Azazel continues, shocking everyone in the room. John’s eyes narrow and he tries to reach out for Sam, but the younger boy is already sitting up with excitement.

_ “Really?” _


	15. Mizpah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd appreciate if you left kudos or a comment. I spend hours writing each of these chapters and I'd love some feedback!  
Happy holiday season!

Dean rouses himself enough to get as far away from the hellhound as he can after a few hours of rest. In truth, it had been the boom of the cannon that had shocked him enough to get up. Unfortunately, the Games don’t stop, no matter what travesty occurs. They didn’t stop for Bela, so they certainly won’t stop for Dean. They won’t stop for Jo. He needs to find her and Krissy. He needs to protect her. That’s all he’s good for. That, and killing people.

Killing people to protect Jo. That’s the best thing he can do, at this point.

He’s chewing on another piece of beef jerky when he hears the low thrum of voices a little bit away from him. The way they echo through the buildings’ weird placement is confusing. Dean is struck with the odd compulsion to know who’s in the area, though, so he tries to track the voices. For all he knows, they might not know about the hellhound. Sure, he wants the other people in the arena dead. But not by the claws of a hellhound. That’s too painful, terrifying, and violent a death for anyone but President Naomi.

The way the voices are echoing makes it impossible to track them down. Dean eventually stops and closes his eyes, trying to find them. All that happens is he can name the voices: Dae Mon, Mary Worthington, and Ava Wilson. Odd team-up, but sure. They can have their alliance. They should be more careful, though, about how loud they’re talking. If Dean can hear them, then surely the Careers or other tributes have heard them too.

He’s just… so tired. He’s just seen someone torn to shreds by a hellhound. He hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since he was dropped in the arena. Could he really have been living luxuriously in the Capitol just three days ago? It feels like an eternity ago he could eat whatever he wanted, and even longer ago that he was with Sam.

Despite the dry jerky he’s been snacking on, Dean’s stomach is protesting loudly. He’d gotten much too used to eating a lot. And his lips and throat are dry, but Dean can’t waste his water, which is already running pretty low. He’s not going to die from starvation and dehydration, he vows to himself. After killing Cole, shooting a hellhound, and wielding the gun he’d been longing for so long, there’s no way something so small as a deficit of nutrition isn’t going to take him out.

The sun is casting mile-long shadows by the time Dean stops. His feet ache. These Capitol-supplied boots are nice and flashy but they haven’t been broken in the way his old boots were, and now they’re chafing at his heels. Blisters aren’t the worst thing in the world, but they are pretty damn annoying. And, as any good tribute will know, any sort of weakness could be the difference between life and death in the arena.

Dean’s just rubbing at his heels, one elbow braced against the side of a brick building for balance, when the screaming starts.

He jolts, eyes suddenly very wide, and his hand clenches around the jerky in his hands like he could use it as a weapon if the need arose. Two screams. Another. Thudding noises, yells that blend together until the words become indecipherable…

And then silence.

It’s probably best if Dean gets to higher ground and stops eating. He doesn’t know what new threat Dae, Mary, and Ava just faced, or if they’re even still alive. It’s always best to be prepared. Right now he needs to find Jo (again) and keep himself alive.

Simple, right?

Except nothing in Dean’s life is ever simple.

_ Screw it. _ He takes another swig of water, effectively drying himself out. He’ll get more tomorrow, hopefully, if he can pick more locks. He needs to see the death recap to get an estimate of who’s still in the arena and who’s not. He enters the building, making sure to lock the door behind himself. The first floor is completely bare, which isn’t a good sign. Still, Dean presses on and starts to climb the stairs up until he gets to either the top floor or a floor with a chest in it.

_ Boom. _ Dean flinches as the first cannon sounds, making his foot slip on the stairs. His hand slaps against the wall for balance at the same time as the second cannon that sounds. He holds his breath, waiting for the third boom, but it doesn’t come. Either one of them was lucky, or…

Time in the arena is really messing with his head. It’s not really conceivable that one tribute had killed the other two, and it’s the sort of thought he’d never have had before getting dropped in the Games. But the tribute pool is dwindling quickly and Dean’s seen terrible things happen to innocent children. So maybe, Dean muses while slipping into the building, maybe it was foul play. He contemplates that possibility as he uses one of his knives to pull up a sliver of wood to pick the lock on another chest, this one with a fancy lock carved in the shape of a train. It must be a room made for District 6, but the light is already so dim Dean would have to strain his eyes to see further decorations. He has to move quickly before the death recap starts.

Inside the trunk is another unopened plastic bottle of water and a can of more food. Dean empties the water into his water bottle and picks up the can, scowling at the words printed on the top: ‘BLACK BEANS’. He’s never heard of black beans before. Sometimes John brings home tan beans from the grocer, but even that is a rarity.

Still, Dean inspects every inch of the can for even the faintest hint of nightlock. He sniffs the can, makes sure there are no holes, makes sure the can hasn’t been opened, and even licks the can and waits for a while to see if he’ll get violently sick.

He doesn’t.

So Dean takes the can of food and treks up the stairs until he’s on the roof again, ready for another painful death recap. He scoops the beans up with the smaller, non-serrated knife—after washing his blood off, of course. They actually taste pretty good, but he bets that they would taste better if they were hot.

_ If only I’d had them during the fireballs, _ Dean thinks derisively.  _ That would have warmed them right up _ .

The Haven anthem starts to play and Dean jumps. The knife, which is very conveniently in his mouth, jerks and cuts his tongue.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean yelps, the sound muffled by the deafening cacophony of instruments. It would definitely be quieter if he was on the ground, but up here he has less of a chance of running into another tribute or missing something in the livecast. Appetite suddenly gone, Dean wipes the knife on his pant leg and drops it back into his boot.

Bela’s smirking face is shown first. Her eyes seem to meet Dean’s and he’s suddenly frozen on that rooftop.  _ If I couldn’t survive, _ she seems to be saying, _ why on earth do you bother to believe that you can? _ And then the smirk fades and she’s saying,  _ Why did you lock me in there with that monster? _

“I don’t know,” Dean says, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully with the weird angle he’s craning his neck at. “I’m so sorry.”

But it’s just a projection of a headshot recorded days ago (back when she was still alive) and so she doesn’t hear and even if she did, she probably wouldn’t care. She was a Career. You either do something or you don’t; you don’t  _ try _ .

Dean’s been trying to protect Sam. He’s been failing at doing that. He’s been trying to protect Jo, but he hasn’t been very good at doing that either.

The picture changes. Now Dae Mon’s picture is shown, his dark hair falling over his eyes and making the dark brown look black.

If Dean had looked harder for him, he might not be dead right now. The picture seems to know that, too, as it glares accusingly at Dean.  _ What right do you have to be living when I’m dead? _ he asks. It’s a question Dean doesn’t know the answer to.

He needs to survive for Sam. But these kids also have families that are watching the Games anxiously, just like how Dean’s been picturing Sam and John watching the television. Hell, some of them might be protecting their family just like how Dean protects Sam. Some of them might be the only things keeping their families from starvation.

And Dean’s so selfish he can’t even bring it in himself to care.

He hadn’t cared when he’d killed Cole. Cole was just trying to avenge his father. If Sam ever got hurt Dean would avenge him. If John ever died Dean would kill whoever killed him too.

Mary Worthington’s picture is shown next. That means Ava Wilson was the one out of the trio to survive. Dean can’t imagine that scenario in his head. She’d been the only tribute to openly cry—sob, really—during the Reaping and looked to be completely useless during training. Sure, that tactic is used a few times to mislead other tributes about your strength, but the thought hadn’t even crossed Dean’s mind. She’d just seemed so authentic, her fear so palpable, and so… useless. Out of the three, he’d expected her to be the first to die. How could she survive something that killed two other Careers? And if she killed them, how on earth did she manage that?

Dean’s got way too many questions and not enough answers. He’d never considered while watching the Games at home how frustrating it might be for the tributes for them not to know the fates of their other tributes. It seems so obvious now.

Well, the Games certainly change one’s perspective.

Sam and John know everything that’s happened in this arena. If only Dean could contact them. What are they thinking right now? What would they say to him? What would Ellen say to Dean right now?

What would  _ Castiel _ say to Dean right now? He’s been so busy Dean hasn’t been able to think of a good nickname for him. He’s still stuck on ‘Cassie’, damn it, and even though he doesn’t mean to think about the girl, he can’t help it. Cast? Cal? Damn, making up nicknames is easy most of the time.

Dean frowns. What makes this any different?

_ Because he’s an escort, _ he tells himself.  _ Because you’re making friends with the people you hated just a few weeks ago. Because he may not be as dumb as you thought he was before, but he is terrifyingly smart, which makes him even worse. Because that means he knows exactly what the Games are, more than a television show for entertainment, and he still doesn’t care. _

Still, it’s nice to think about being able to give someone a nickname. It’s nice to think about having a future.

* * *

Castiel’s steely blue eyes watch, unamused, as Gabriel flits between gaggles of people. He holds a bottomless glass of champagne in his hands, or maybe it just seems that way because the Gamemaker always seems to be able to find a replacement the second he’s done with one glass. Soon enough Gabriel will find his way back to where Castiel is sitting silently, one leg crossed over the other and an untouched bottle of champagne dangling loosely from his fingers from where his arms are draped over the top of the chair he’s sitting on.

One of Gabriel’s coworkers, the only other Gamemaker who favors his natural coloring over the artificial ones of the Capitol, rolls a grape between two fingers anxiously as he sits in a chair to the left of Castiel. His name is Kevin Tran, Castiel knows. He knows that Kevin has a mother and that President Naomi knows about said mother. And that Kevin knows that Naomi knows about said mother.

Castiel has also heard the unspoken whispers of the Avoxes that say Kevin is a rebel and that is why he is so anxious. That his mother must disappear before he makes his move. That the younger boy is less of a coward than Castiel and more of a man than the escort could ever be.

Interestingly, both Castiel and Kevin are sitting on the only two chairs that aren’t as obnoxiously loud and bright as everything else in the Capitol. Whether by some fluke, pure coincidence, or some manipulation by Naomi, once they arrived to the revelry the only chairs left were the plain white ones.

It could be nothing. But Castiel’s been living in the Capitol for long enough to know that things are rarely nothing. Everything is something. Even something as simple as the color of your bedsheets when your laundry is done can mean something—the Gamemaker that Kevin replaced, a man named Luke whose surname Castiel never learned, had remarked offhandedly to Castiel that his bedsheets had been replaced with red ones just one day after mentioning that it was unfair of the Capitol to hoard resources when the districts are in dire need.

And then he’d been dead just two days after that.

“These Games have been especially brutal,” Kevin says after a long silence.

Castiel merely hums with agreement and nods his head up and down slowly once. His eyes are still trained on his brother. Right now Gabriel is plucking different food items from trays carried by Avoxes. Gabriel has never been one to turn down luxury, which is why he excels so greatly here in the Capitol. Perhaps it is the memories of their early days when they had nothing that influences his gluttony. Either way, he tries to eat as much as he can, take advantage of every perk the Capitol can offer, and avoids every mention of the districts. Castiel would be exasperated with him, and he often is, but Gabriel is the only connection he has to their old lives.

Castiel’s eyes flick to study Kevin Tran—study the bags under his eyes so dark they look like twin black eyes, the crumpled collar of his shirt, and his ragged nails (Castiel cringes a little bit at that, just thinking about how much they must snag on his clothes). Right now the Gamemaker can play off his obvious signs of stress by saying he’s been working hard on the Games, but that excuse can’t fly for the entire year.

He’ll learn how to mask his worries soon enough. Everyone here does—that is, everyone here that’s not a mindless Capitol citizen. Everyone that works in the government knows just how precarious their position in Haven is—and, by extension, their life. Whether they be stolen from the districts when they show promise or raised in the Capitol and added onto the teams of people for extra cannon fodder as well as a unique perspective, there is no way to work for President Naomi and not realize how small everyone is in the grand scheme of things. Especially compared to the great President. She seems to think of herself as a great giant that can crush anyone she wants with every step just because she can.

_ Well, _ Castiel thinks as a sneer twists his lips and he pretends to take another small sip of champagne as curious eyes glance his way,  _ I’m the size of the Training Center, Naomi. Who’s bigger now? _

But, of course, such thoughts of grandeur and rebellion are just that—thoughts. They will never come to fruition. Castiel will never act on them. Not unless he wants to die immediately.

That had been his motto, right up to about a week ago:  _ A rebellion won’t work. You’ll just die before the thought even passes your lips. _ Because the Capitol has specialists who watch for signs of deviance, of heresy, or even the slightest hint of resentments towards Naomi in the Capitol (not so much in the districts, where everything was so much easier and yet more complicated, where survival was a struggle but people were able to band together with their shared revulsion of Naomi and everything Capitol). Castiel would last three days, maybe less, if he dared mention his internal struggle aloud (and yet, somehow, Gabriel can still be serious enough to read him and knows what he’s thinking most of the time. He adapted to the life of a Capitol citizen much more easily than Castiel, and sometimes he can’t even tell whether Gabriel’s frivolousness is an act. It unsettles him to feel doubt when looking into his brother’s once-familiar face).

It was the mantra he repeated to himself every time he saw Naomi’s lined, serious face on the television. It was the mantra he repeated to himself every time he had to reach his fingers into that bowl and condemn two more people to death (God, Castiel doesn’t think he’ll ever forget a single name).

And then Castiel had been instructed to, no matter what, announce Samuel Winchester during the boy’s reaping. And the same for Johanna Harvelle.

Just two more names. Ezra Moore and Bucky Sims were spared a terrible fate, certain death, and Castiel not only condemned two more to the same fate, but these children had a chance. They’d not been called. They’d deserved another year, all the years, and a life without the Capitol.

“Who do you think will win?” Kevin tries at making conversation yet again. Castiel had pegged him the moment he’d seen him as someone who always wanted to be stimulated. If he wasn’t working, then he had to be talking, and if he wasn’t talking someone else had to be. Or maybe there had to be some sort of stimuli for him to be distracted by. He’s the perfect Capitol citizen—or he would be, if he wasn’t so smart. If he didn’t have Linda Tran as a mother.

It’s why Castiel stays silent now, why he simply shrugs. One can learn a great deal of things about another when they’re uncomfortable.

But he knows what his answer would be.

Dean Winchester. Maybe also Jo, if their desperate gamble to appear in love pays off.

Castiel looks over to where Robert Singer is chatting up two older women that must owe him a few favors. He sits on a chair shaped like an egg, perched at the edge. If he sat back he’d be at least a foot shorter with how much the chair sags. It also looks like it would be uncomfortable; the back of the chair is made of blue metal spikes that curve outwards in a cradle-looking contraption. The two women he’s entertaining are sitting on chairs with no backs covered entirely with goose feathers that match their skirts.

For such a rough, cranky old man, he sure is good at seeming like a sweet one when he feels like it. Like an old man who’s grown attached to the tributes (he’s known for less than a week) and wants to see them survive and grow old and happy together (and while he does want that, he doesn’t want them forced into a loveless marriage).

Castiel doesn’t know what Robert is saying to the women. Logically, he knows that he shouldn’t be worried about the old Victor. He’s managed to wrangle sponsors for most of the tributes he’s mentored, so obviously he can navigate treacherous, glittery Capitol waters without much effort. He will be able to get sponsors for Dean and Jo—that is, if they even need them. The two tributes have surprised and impressed everyone watching the Games with the odd skillset they both possess.

But at the same time, it’s Dean Winchester. Castiel’s… friend? No, the person he sentenced to death, really. Castiel hadn’t missed the revulsion that had been clear in Dean’s face as he’d looked Castiel in the eyes for the very first time. Neither boys had been under any illusion that Castiel was anything less than a monster.

Castiel has long come to terms with his selfishness, his limited perspective that both plagues him and comforts him. He knows that not seeing what happens to the grieving families and sentencing children to death saves him and helps him sleep at night. And yet knowing that makes his stomach churn sometimes like when he drinks the special drinks made just for regurgitation.

Why is it his life or someone else’s? Why is it his happiness or someone else’s?

But for some reason Dean looked past that. At least Castiel thinks he had. The tribute had promised Castiel a nickname once he got out of the arena and he’d offered a few small smiles at times in the days preceding the Games. In a way, those small smiles had felt a little like olive branches. If Dean is anything like Gabriel, then they were meant to be taken that way.

Nobody has ever given Castiel a nickname. First he was unloved by all but his brother in the districts (he had a different name, too; Jimmy, but now that name sounds as foreign to his ears as voices without the Capitol accent) and then he was unloved but feared, respected, even hated, as an escort for the Capitol. But he was safe and so was Gabriel, so that was enough for Castiel, until Dean Winchester had glared at him and promised to give him a nickname.

Castiel clears his throat and stands up, throwing back the whole champagne glass with one gulp. Kevin Tran startles like a frightened deer and drops the grape he’d been worrying between ink-stained fingers for the better part of an hour.

_ Screw Gabriel _ , Castiel thinks sourly as he watches his brother scurry between multicolored citizens, regaling them with his outlanding stories and crude yet lovable humor.  _ He’ll come find me when he feels like being responsible for once _ . Castiel hasn’t been able to hold a grudge against his brother for years, but seeing him fit in so well with these people (knowing he’s working with other Gamemakers and they’re all trying to kill Dean) makes him irate for some reason.

He plans on leaving the party early, as he often does. He plans on going back to his room and sleeping or watching the Games. But how can he watch the Games when he sees a boy that had shown him the first kindness he’s ever known from someone other than Gabriel fight for his life? How can Castiel sleep knowing that even if Dean survives, he will never get a nickname because he is a selfish bastard and Dean is sure to see that? How can Castiel watch children die—children whose names he drew out of a bowl at random?

How can Castiel sleep when he knows he is a murderer?

“Come, Kevin Tran,” Castiel invites. “Let’s take a walk. I imagine we have much to talk about.”


	16. Esperance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think by dropping a comment down below!  
ALSO, VERY IMPORTANT: THERE WILL BE NO NEW UPDATES UNTIL MONDAY, JANUARY 6, 2020. I AM GOING ON VACATION AND WILL NOT HAVE SUFFICIENT ACCESS TO THE INTERNET DURING THE HOLIDAYS. Regardless, I hope everyone enjoys their holidays. I will see you all again in the new year!  
There is also a specific TW for this chapter: homophobic language, references to abuse, and internalized homophobia.

Dean wakes up to the sound of someone screaming his name. At first he blinks, swipes his hand over his eyes, and swallows. His throat went dry during the night and he almost reaches for his water bottle before wondering why, exactly, his heart is racing and he’s awake. The sun hasn’t risen enough to stir him and, near as Dean can tell, there are no hellhounds or fireballs nearby. He’d been jerked out of a deep sleep, after all, and—

“Dean!” the person bawls. “Jo! Help me!” The person’s voice cracks and warbles, sounding very close to tears.

Dean jackknifes to his feet and scoops his bag up off the ground after hastily stuffing the blanket inside. The voice sounds like… but no… she was with Jo, wasn’t she? How did they get separated?

“Dean,  _ please _ !” Krissy yells again, a sob now, and Dean’s off, pounding down the stairs (he never does get a break, does he?) and sucking in deep breaths of air that scratch at his dry throat. Something awful must have happened for her to separate from Jo, not to mention that Krissy must be in trouble herself to be yelling his name so loudly. Now the tributes are going to know that both Krissy and Dean are… wherever Krissy is right now.

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid, _ Dean chides himself as he bolts down the stairs. It could be a trap for all he knows.

He’s still going to go, obviously. He can picture John watching the television and shaking his head. He can picture Sam biting his nails, anxious, and he can picture Ellen standing up to grab a beer so she doesn’t have to watch him run headfirst into danger once more.

“Jo!” Krissy screams again. The sound echoes all around Dean, bouncing off the buildings, and he curses that no other disaster has caused more buildings to fall yet. Sure, it would be forcing the tributes closer together; easier to kill one another. Easier to find one another. Easier to find Jo and protect her.

Then again, maybe the hellhound was one of those disasters. No one’s going anywhere near it, at least, and all the surviving tributes know about it.

So the fireballs took care of the northernmost section of the faux-district and the hellhound is guarding the area to the west of that.

“Krissy!” Dean bellows. He closes his eyes and waits for her response.

“Dean!”

He’s pretty sure he knows where her voice is coming from. John had never really focused on tracking sounds without being able to see, but Dean had done enough obstacle courses and hunts during the night that he’s pretty well off without only using his eyes. “Krissy, it’s all right, I’m coming!”

“Please hurry, Dean!” he can hear her pleading. God, what could have happened  _ now _ ? Who would have wanted to hurt such a small kid? Twelve years old, for God’s sake, with a little mole underneath her left eye. Who would want to hurt that? Even Dean, who’s killed animals and people without batting an eye, couldn’t do that. He doesn’t want to think that the Careers would, either, but he suspects that he has more of a soul than those from Districts 1, 2, and 3.

Dean can feel the buildings closing in on him as he jogs toward the sound of Krissy’s pleading. He doesn’t want to sprint, doesn’t want to make too much noise, but his location is already shot anyway, isn’t it? He can surely expect company wherever he turns up.

The buildings surround him like silent giants. Some of them are tall enough to cast shadows, blessed relief from the sun pounding down and baking everything in its glow, but not enough. Not enough for Dean’s eyes to relax from their angry squint. He can feel the back of his neck burning. To make matters worse, the cut on his arm feels warm to the touch. Not to mention that the burn on his stomach smarts when he presses a hand to it. Capitol creams seem to need to be used more than once on burns that severe—another motivation for Dean to find Jo.

Dean follows the girl’s voice until the very edge of the buildings. He doesn’t come out anywhere near the Cornucopia. There’s only a couple hundred yards between the buildings and the thick foliage. A couple hundred yards that, Dean knows, is called no-man’s-land during wartime, if the buildings and trees were opposing sides of a conflict. If he follows that logic, then there could be snipers from the trees’ team watching his every move, watching him shift his weight between feet as he debates his options. His home team, the side he’s on, are the buildings. But Krissy’s been taken captive by their enemies and he needs to bring her back.

Dean shadows his eyes with his hand and he scans the area. He’s got the only gun in the Games, which is a pretty big advantage. But spears, knives, hell, even stones, can be chucked hard enough to kill someone if they hit him in the right spot. He doesn’t see movement in the trees, apart from them waving in the barely-there wind that doesn’t stop sweat from trickling down his face and back. Far as he can see, there’s no one hiding in any windows of the buildings, either, or pressed to the sides. It looks pretty safe.

He thinks.

But, as John has always said, Dean’s not the thinker of the family. That’s Sam and sometimes John. Dean’s the impulsive one that gets his hands slapped for taking food without asking, that gets caught stealing food for his brother, that gets caught with girls behind the school, that sneaks out beyond the district’s boundaries.

But if he gets caught now, he won’t get a slap on the wrist or on the cheek. He won’t get his privileges taken away or detention. He’ll have to kill someone, get killed, or at the very least get injured.

“There’s got to be a better way to her,” Dean murmurs. He takes a hesitant step forward and then backs up, clunky Capitol boots nearly tripping over a spare piece of debris on the ground. If only the buildings and trees connected at some point. No such luck, unfortunately. The no-man’s-land looks to stretch around the entire faux-district.

“Dean!” Krissy yells again. “Please help!”

Dean wants to yell back that he’s coming, but the words are stuck in his throat.  _ Why can’t she shut up? _ he wonders miserably. He’d thought she was smart; how is it smart to constantly yell and bring attention to your location, especially if she’s stuck wherever she is? And she has to be stuck; if she wasn’t she wouldn’t be screaming for help.

The blood rushing in his ears is too loud for Dean to even  _ think _ .

The piece of rock he’d almost tripped over skitters across the ground and Dean looks at it, frowning. Nobody’d kicked it. He hadn’t, had he?

The rock continues to shake on the ground. Dean can barely feel the tremors through his boots and he frowns with confusion. How could a rock that small—barely the size of his fist—be skittering around the ground hard enough to create vibrations, and why is it moving on its own anyway?

The blood stops rushing in Dean’s ears and he realizes that that sound was  _ not _ blood.

He turns slowly on his heel.

The buildings that had been so stationary, so immovable, so tall and silent and strong, are unmistakably shaking and swaying. The sound that Dean had written off as the uncomfortable awareness of his own bodily functions turns out to be little rocks falling off the sides of the buildings and sliding on the ground just like the one he’d nearly tripped over.

Dean knows the word for this disaster. It’s called… it’s called… 

He’d learned about them in school, damn it, and their Capitol-written, edited, and supplied textbooks all claimed that it was during Haven’s rule that all the old disasters stopped. It was never really clear how, though, the Capitol stopped those disasters—they’d seemed so big in the textbooks, even on paper, so vast, that Dean can’t wrap his head around  _ anyone _ being able to control them—nor was there ever any clarifications as to how common the disasters were before Haven. ‘Almost completely halted’ the textbooks had claimed, but there was only their words to say that the disasters hadn’t been ‘almost completely halted’ before the rebellion too.

All the disasters he knows. The tornadoes are the huge whirlpools of air, flooding he of course knows (it is a constant threat, what with living near the hydroelectric dam and all), and he knows the one where the earth shakes. Quakes.

“Earthquake?”

If he didn’t know better, Dean would say it was just his own vision bending in the same way that mirages are made, but mirages can’t be felt. And Dean can  _ definitely _ feel the tremors radiating up his legs.

“Why’s it always  _ me _ that has to outrun the rubble?” Dean asks, flopping his arms at his sides. He doesn’t know how the Gamemakers plan to make him run from these buildings swaying like plants in a harsh wind. First the fireballs, then the hellhound… and Dean can hardly shoot at some buildings, can he? He’s certainly not strong enough to live if one falls on him— _ oh _ .

_ That’s _ how the Gamemakers plan to make him run.

The thought crosses his brain for maybe half a second—not enough time to process or react—before he sees one of the taller buildings sway too hard to one side as a particularly strong tremble makes him stumble.

“Please don’t let Jo be in one of those buildings,” Dean murmurs.

And then he realizes that the building that had tilted too far to one side is crashing down.

In his direction.

Dean turns to run, but the two buildings that had been marking his entrance to No Man’s Land are shedding rocks as if it’s a waterfall.

The ground trembles again, knocking Dean off his feet. The building that had been first to fall leans with enough force into another building that just so happens to be about 50 yards away from Dean, creating a collision that has debri flying everywhere. A stray rock glances off Dean’s hurt arm, making him cry out. He’s in so much pain. His head knocked against the ground when he fell, his forearm  _ still _ hurts—it’s been in constant pain since the Bloodbath and the infection manages to make the pain feel somehow  _ deeper _ —and Dean hasn’t had a good night’s sleep or full meal in days. Maybe it would be easier to get crushed by a building. Jo can make it home without his help, right?

_ What, you can’t take a little earthquake, cut on your forearm, and burn on your stomach? _ John Winchester scolds.  _ You’ve had worse, boy. _

(broken limbs, twisted joints, Sam crying)

_ I’ve done worse to you _

(bruises on his wrists, cuts on his back, calluses on his feet)

_ to make sure you were prepared for this moment _

(were you always planning this, Dad? Did you know that I was going to be damned just like you and didn’t even bother to tell me?)

_ but maybe you just aren’t as strong as I thought. _

(Well, that’s true at least; I’m just so tired, how did you manage to win this competition?)

_ Come on, now. Get up. _

_ But I’m just too tired, _ Dean argues back deliriously.

_ Get up! _ Sam suddenly screams into his ear, a faint echo of the few times his younger brother had found Dean, bleeding in the bathroom (the horror on his brother’s face was worse than the actual injury), and Dean had just joked that a monster had gotten him (and maybe one had).  _ Don’t give up! _ his brother commands like when Dean’s struggling with school because he’s the dumb one of the family, he’s the soldier, it’s why he’s in the Games instead of Sam.  _ Get up, _ his brother repeats softly, on the days when Dean’s almost too tired to get out of bed but Sam wants to get out, Sam wants to explore, and Sam can only do that when Dean’s around because Dean will protect him.

“Yeah, I’m getting up,” Dean grumbles. His father can’t be trusted around Sam. He needs to protect Sam.

The trembling is getting worse. Dean isn’t even sure if the ground will be there when he takes another step, which seems like the sickest thing the Gamemakers have done to him all the Games. He’s seen fireballs, he’s seen hellhounds, he’s seen people kill and die every way imaginable both on a television screen and in real life. But some things have always been the same in all the Games—there’s always at least a little food and water, there’s always weapons, there’s always allies and enemies, and most importantly, the ground has always been stable. Except for during the countdown during the opening of the Games, of course.

Dean makes it to a crouch, one hand braced against a building for extra support, even though that won’t do much good. He has a feeling the way the buildings are swaying in front of him isn’t entirely from the earthquake.

But Dean cannot have a concussion in the arena. He  _ cannot _ .

Another building falls, making the ground shudder so hard Dean hits his knees again. He just needs to make it through the rock-fall and no-man’s-land and then he’ll be able to help Krissy and find Jo. Too bad the no-man’s-land looks about as far away as Sam is right now.

A small shower of pebbles rains down on Dean’s form and then,  _ finally _ , he has the brilliant idea to use his backpack to shield his head. Without his arms to help, balance is a little trickier, but Dean bends his knees and runs sort of like a crab.

Another building falls. The sound of it crashing down nearly deafens Dean and he stumbles again as more rubble fall. A rock hits the small of his back particularly hard and Dean groans but continues to stumble towards the no-man’s-land. Distantly Dean wonders if his stumbling gait looks anything akin to John’s when John comes home very late, and then he tells himself that not isn’t exactly the time. His attention wandered too long, though; he’s on his hands and knees again, the backpack has gone sprawling, and a small pebble glances off his ear.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean barks. This is just getting annoying. It’s like the Gamemakers are targeting him or something. Then again, he’d never expected the Games to be easy to win.

He looks up and, as if in slow motion, sees that the two buildings that are now presenting his only escape—because he’s sure as hell not running further into the earthquake-affected buildings—are swaying very dangerously. He has to get through them  _ fast _ . Or, you know, he dies. Fun times.

He scrabbles on hands and knees to the once-orange, now-brown-spotted backpack that contains all his food, half of his knives, a water bottle, and other survival supplies.

More rocks rain down, making Dean cringe away just in time to see a small avalanche fall on top of the backpack.

“Son of a bitch!” He slaps his hand against the ground and puts the other right above his heart, where the gun in his jacket is. A rock hits his boot and bounces off. “Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ !”

_ GET UP, DEAN! _ Sam screams.  _ GET UP NOW! RUN! _

He’s never said that to Dean before.

Dean gets up. He runs.

He runs through the buildings, arms cradling his head and bearing the brunt force of at least five rocks. One rock bounces off the ground, or something like that, because it hits Dean right in the chin.

He sprints through no-man’s-land, completely forgetting about the possibility of people watching and waiting for a good shot. All he can hear is the crash of rocks on the ground behind him and the low rumble of a man-made earthquake that still shakes the ground where Dean is.

It seems to take so long but logically, Dean knows it only lasted about half a minute to get in the middle of the no-man’s-land. Another tremble shakes the ground and Dean’s foot lands before he’d thought it would.

He goes sprawling. White-hot pain lances up his right ankle and Dean cries out. “Son of a  _ bitch _ !” He grabs his ankle instinctively but that just makes the pain throb more, so Dean leans back and curls his hands into the grass, breathing deeply to stop himself from panicking.

He looks up just in time to see the earthquake stop. All of the buildings in a quarter-mile radius seem to shiver, freeze for a moment, and then the bottoms all fold in. The buildings collapse in a way that is not natural.

_ Third part down. _ Dean can’t help but wonder where the Gamemakers will strike next, and what they will do.

He cranes his neck to look behind him. Krissy has stopped crying out. Maybe she’s scared of what the crashing noises could mean or maybe she’s unconscious or something like that. There’s still about a hundred yards left for Dean to travel until he’s safe under the cover of trees, but judging by the way Dean’s ankle is throbbing, he’s not going to be able to walk without a large degree of pain accompanying his every step. He could hop, but his but his balance isn't good enough for that.

“Son of a  _ bitch _ .” Dean fishes inside his boot. Thankfully he still has the smaller knife. He just doesn’t have any food. Or a blanket. Or supplies.

A coughing fit overtakes him and Dean doubles over. His throat is coated with dust and scratched raw from panting furiously as he sprinted.

_ Need to get out of the open, _ he thinks desperately. Trying to put pressure on his foot sends more stabbing pains up his ankle and he grimaces. Twisted ankles are never fun. At least John had trained Dean for them. His training was damn near perfect.

Breathing through gritted teeth, Dean stands up, leaning heavily on his left leg, and starts to stagger towards the tree line. Every time he puts pressure on his twisted ankle he has to grit his teeth and try not to cry out.

_ You’re not weak, boy, _ John commands.  _ I didn’t raise no girl, did I? Did I raise a faggot or did I raise a man? _

Dean bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the pounding in his head just behind his eyes.  _ No, sir. _

_ You a faggot, boy? _

_ No, sir. _

_ Then keep walking. _

_ Yes, sir. _

Sweat trickles down the side of his face and down his neck. One step— _ pain _ . Another step—more pain.

_ Just put one foot in front of the other, _ Dean tells himself.  _ Almost there. _ He falls onto the nearest tree once he reaches the forest with a cry of relief as he relieves his foot of his body weight. His head pounds and vision swims.

“Krissy?” Dean rasps. His throat has been completely coated with dust, and he’s now without water and food and a blanket to keep him warm at night. He is royally fucked. He swallows and tries again. “Krissy?”

“Dean!” the girl yells and Dean hops, using trees as a support, in the vague direction of her voice. The trek is hardly easy, considering the roots, sticks, and leaves on the ground. Plus, the trees seem to be thinning. To top it all off, every hop jostles Dean’s ankle and makes him pray for Bobby to send some help.

“Krissy, are you all right?”

“I’m just… stuck,” the girl admits with not enough embarrassment in her voice for all the racket she was making a few minutes ago. “What about you? What was all that crashing?”

Dean lunges for another tree branch and misses. He hits the ground palms-first, which sends bolts of pain up his arms and he’s almost sure the cut on his arm oozed a little more blood at the jolt. “Son of a bitch!”

“You okay?” Krissy asks. Dean looks up and meets her gaze. The child is hooked up in a net that hangs from a tree branch about two feet off the ground. Her little fingers twist in the rough fabric and she beams at Dean. For one breath all he can see is Sam, because the gesture is so different from the blood and carnage he’s seen so far in the Games. Are people even allowed to smile during the Games? Dean’s almost sure it’s never happened before.

He even allows himself to start smiling back, because Sam’s here and that means Dean’s safe and out of the arena (how did everyone kill each other off, it’s lucky Dean never noticed it happening, and Jo must be dead now too, but at least he’s out and Sam’s  _ here _ ) but then the mole under Krissy’s eye crinkles where Sam doesn’t have one and Dean’s shocked back into the present.

“I’m fine,” he grunts, stretching up to grab a low-hanging branch and using it to pull himself up. “What about you? What happened to Jo?”

Krissy grimaces. “I’m not sure. We got caught by the Careers. I think the girl from District 3 might have thrown a knife at her? Then again, it could have been either of them. I was too busy running, you know?”

“Understandable,” Dean grunts through gritted teeth. He hops toward the net and reaches inside his boot for the knife. “I’m sure she’s fine. It was just… just the heat of the moment that made you think she got hurt at all.”

Krissy makes a little sound of disbelief, but she’s just a child and what does she know, so Dean ignores it.

“We just need to find her once you’re out of this,” Dean continues, sawing at the thick rope with the knife. If only it was the knife with the serrated edge. It would make this process go a whole lot faster.

Krissy gasps. “Dean, look out!”

“Huh?” Dean’s head jerks up and his eyes meet Krissy’s, which are staring at something just to the right of his head. He whirls around but something cuts through the air in front of him not more than an inch from his nose. Dean jerks his head back, blinking rapidly, and sees that it’s a huge spear. Krissy sucks in a shocked breath as the spear stops with a wet sort of thudding sound. But it only lodged itself above her body in the net, right?

Almost in slow motion, Dean turns his head and dumbly watches Vam Pyre pull a machete from his waistband and fancily flip it so it’s in perfect stabbing position.

“Lost all your weapons, Winchester?” the District 1 boy snarls. “Looking a little worse for the wear there. Must have lost a few fights, huh?”

“How’s your side, Vam?” Dean retorts instinctively, lowering into a crouch in front of the net to protect Krissy. “The stab wound sting a bit?” He brandishes the small knife in his hand, which looks like a toothpick compared to Vam’s machete.

But Vam’s wounded, which gives Dean an advantage—no, nevermind, Dean’s wounded too. But Vam’s alone—well, Krissy’s trapped in a huge net, so she’s not much help and hoping that Jo will sweep in to save Dean is ludicrous and not the way the Games work. But at least Dean’s had better nutrition than Vam these few days… maybe. Hopefully.

Dean takes a step and something heavy brushes against his chest right above his heart. The partially-burnt skin smarts and Dean puts his hand to the affected area. He feels the outline of a hard object in his pocket.

“I’m an idiot,” Dean says aloud. He drops the small knife into his pocket.

Vam falters. “What?”

Before the District 1 boy can take another breath, Dean’s drawn the gun and pointed it at him. “I can’t believe I completely forgot about this,” Dean admits.

And he fires.


	17. Cordolium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had an awesome holiday break! I am back on the horse now, and we are in the home stretch!  
Make sure to leave a comment below to let me know what you think. That always makes my day.

Vam falls and Dean doesn’t even blink when the cannon goes off. He checks the chamber of the revolver—three bullets left—before tucking it back into the inner pocket of his coat and turning back around to Krissy.

“It’s okay,” he assures her, fishing around in her pocket for the knife. “We just have to get out of here before they come to take his body away.”

Krissy makes a little choking sound as he begins to saw at the rope again. Dean dismisses it as shock at the coldblooded murder until she coughs again and a little drop of blood slides from the corner of her mouth to her chin.

“Krissy?” Dean asks, frowning. “Are you hurt?” He puts his arm down, accidentally jostling the spear, which he was working around, and she cries out harshly.

Dean looks down. He’d assumed— _ hoped _ —that the spear had missed. But now he sees that it hit its target—or maybe it had missed its target and found another instead. The head of the shaft is buried deep inside Krissy’s stomach. A red flower is slowly staining her shirt.

“No,” he whispers, shaking his head. “No, no, no, no, it’s fine, okay?” he babbles, working harder at sawing through the rope. Dean’s frantic motions make the knife slip and he doesn’t even notice the pain from the blade slicing his palm. “You’re gonna be okay, all right? Just hang on, okay?”

“Dean…” Krissy’s voice is soft and barely above a whisper.

“Shut up,” Dean orders. This is his fault. He shouldn’t have moved. “Why’d you warn me, Krissy?” he asks miserably. “It would have just hit my arm.”

“No, it wouldn’t have,” she whispers and coughs again. The twelve-year-old wipes her chin with her sleeve, but that just smears the blood on her face more.

“Dean?”

Dean jumps at the sound of another familiar voice. Jo arrived too late. “Come help me,” he snaps. “Come on, Krissy. Just hold on a little longer, okay? You’re gonna be  _ fine _ .”

Jo places a hand on his shoulder. “Dean…”

“Get your healing cream out,” Dean interrupts loudly. “ _ Jo _ .”

Jo takes out her father’s knife and helps Dean free Krissy instead. The child is mostly silent as they work, save for coughing and sniffling at times.

Once the two District 5 tributes have cut a wide enough hole for Krissy to get out, now comes the issue of actually getting her out. The spear isn’t supple enough to finagle it out of the net.

“Here, hold her up and I’ll…” Dean grunts, trying to lift the spear up just enough for the angle to allow it to slip through the net’s holes, but Krissy cries out again weakly.

“Just take it out,” the child whispers.

Jo blanches. “Krissy…”

“I’m already dead!” she snaps. “Just spare me a little bit of pain, okay?”

Dean wrenches the spear out of her body. All the sounds around him are muffled and his peripheral vision is blurring as he focuses on the small girl. She’s smaller than Sam. She looks like a doll.

Jo gently places Krissy on the ground and grips her hand so harshly both girls have white knuckles. Dean kneels down on the other side of the girl and strokes her hair out of her face.

“You’re so brave,” he whispers. “Your dad knows that.  _ Everyone _ knows that.”

Krissy nods and squeezes her eyes shut. A single tear drips out of her left eye and he brushes it away. “Tell him…” her voice breaks and it hurts Dean’s heart so much he feels like he’s dying right along with the child. “Tell him I love him, okay?”

“He already knows,” Dean whispers. If even Krissy wasn’t good enough to make it out of the arena, how in the hell will he? Sure, he’s got more skills, but something so  _ pure _ should have risen out of the imperfection easily. She was too innocent to die.

And yet she’s bleeding out right now.

“But tell him,” Krissy insists. “You have to win.”

Dean’s mouth opens but his mind is blank. What is he supposed to say to that? “Ah…”

“Don’t worry,” Jo assures her. “We’ll tell him.”

“Good,” Krissy breathes. “I know you will. You guys… are so good.”

A drop of water falls onto Krissy’s face and Dean wipes his eyes with confusion. When did he start crying?

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” the girl breathes. The creases in her forehead disappear as Jo strokes her hair again. “Thank you for… saving me, Dean.”

“I didn’t,” Dean whispers. “I didn’t… I wasn’t quick enough.”

“That’s fine,” Krissy whispers back. “They wouldn’t have let you… they wouldn’t have let you save me even if you were…” She wheezes. “Quick enough. You did your best.” Another coughing fit overtakes her, and then Krissy slumps back onto the ground. Her head lolls.

A cannon fires.

But that was another tribute, right? Maybe the girl from District 7, Sif Terr; she hasn’t even been seen, as far as Dean can tell, ever since the Games started. Or any of the Careers. Or—

“Krissy?” Dean asks. The girl’s eyelashes don’t even flutter. “No… no… Krissy! Hey! Snap out of it!” He grabs her chin and forcefully turns her face towards him. “Krissy? Look at me!”

“Dean,” Jo tries. “She’s—”

“Shut up!” Dean snarls. “She’s  _ fine _ ! I told you to get that cream out! She’s just passed out—get the damn medicine, Jo!”

“The medicine won’t solve a gaping hole in her stomach,” Jo points out, way too calm for this situation, and it infuriates Dean. His almost-sister’s fingers reach for Krissy’s neck, presumably to take a pulse, and he flings them away.

“You let her die!” he accuses. “If you had—”

Jo’s expression hardens, but Dean’s already correcting himself.

“If I hadn’t dodged the spear… if you hadn’t left her…” He strokes Krissy’s hair again. “This is my fault.”

“It was whoever threw the spear’s fault,” Jo says with heat. She looks over at where Vam’s body lays. “District 1? Vam Pyre? How’d you kill him?”

Dean’s hand goes to his breast pocket wordlessly and Jo pushes his hand away before shoving a hand into the pocket. She barely needs to touch the gun before recoiling slightly. “How’d you get  _ that _ ? Didn’t Bela have it?”

Looking away from Krissy takes much more effort than Dean had anticipated. He’s barely looked at Jo before she’s saying quickly, “You know what? We can talk about this later. Come on; we need to get away from the bodies.”

Yes, that’s right, the Gamemakers need to pick up the bodies of Vam Pyre and Krissy Chambers so they can be packaged into neat little coffins and sent back to their families. They’ll be cold and pale and still for a day and then they’ll be burned.

“Can’t we just bury her here?” Dean whispers. His lips feel very cold and larger than normal. “Why should they get her body? They’ll just wash away what they did to her.”

Jo slaps him. “I  _ said _ , come on, Dean!” Then her face softens and she pushes her mouth against his, teeth clinking together uncomfortably. “Please?”

“My ankle,” Dean says helplessly. Jo lets him sling his arm around her shoulders and pulls him along. They make it two steps before trumpets sound. He had half-expected them; there are only seven tributes left. Normally Asmodeus Stardonna will announce a feast at the Cornucopia. Sometimes there is an actual feast akin to the food Dean was able to eat in the Capitol and sometimes it’s merely a loaf of bread that tributes fight over. It would be a good time to take out some competitors but it would be dumb to actually go for the food.

Whatever it is, it means that food is getting scarce for everyone. That reminds Dean that he needs to start setting traps once he and Jo settle down for the night; his stomach might be rumbling now but it’s also churning and he might vomit after one bite, so he’ll only check the traps in the morning.

That reminder almost makes Dean miss the announcement that Asmodeus makes. It’s not an invitation to a feast. It’s a rule change announcement, which is confusing. There aren’t a whole lot of rules in the Games, apart from ‘Don’t step off your circle before the sixty-second countdown is finished’ and the unspoken rule about not desecrating corpses and/or eating them.

Under the new rule, there can be two Victors of this year’s Hunger Games as long as they come from the same district. Asmodeus repeats the rule change after a slight pause, as if he realizes that Dean’s still too shell-shocked to understand what’s going on.

Then it sinks in.

Jo flings her arms around Dean’s neck.

* * *

Someone knocks on the front door but Sam doesn’t even twitch. Dean’s acting really weird on the screen right now. He’s… insisting that it’s his fault the District 11 girl died? While also saying that she’s not  _ really _ dead? And  _ also _ saying that it’s now  _ Jo’s _ fault that she’s dead?

The person knocks again, louder, and it startles John out of his dozing on the couch next to Sam. He snorts and blinks before raising his head and looking to Sam. “What did I miss?”

“Dean shot the District 1 boy after he killed the District 11 girl,” Sam answers promptly. “There was an earthquake and Dean lost his backpack. It was  _ awesome _ .”

John blinks again and squints a bit as if Sam had lost him, but really, it wasn’t that confusing.

The person at the door knocks  _ again _ and John calls out that he’s coming before standing up.

Ruby, who’s sitting next to Sam on the couch, snorts at the television screen as Jo has to wrestle with Dean to get him to let go of the District 11 girl’s body. Privately, Sam agrees with her unspoken comments, but outwardly he bristles at the way she dismisses Dean, because Dean is awesome. He’s strong and smart and capable and even if he’s acting a bit stupid right now, that doesn’t mean he is stupid. That doesn’t mean he’s pathetic or going to lose the Games or anything else like that, especially because he’s with Jo again. He’s been so badass during the entire Games. Sam hopes Dean will show him how to be that badass when he gets back.

Really, Sam’s been looking for a reason to be mad at Ruby for almost since he met her and Meg. Apart from the fact that Meg was the one to acknowledge his presence and the blonde just ignored him, it’s also clear that she doesn’t think very much about Dean either. Besides, her disdain for everything and everything in the Winchester household is grating, not to mention how many salted, fried potato chips she’s eaten while watching the Games. Sure, the food is hardly in short supply, especially because she’s stealing them from the Victor pantry. Doesn’t mean Sam appreciates the theft any more.

All in all, Sam’s not exactly enchanted with the prickly, sneering blonde rebel-slash-Peacekeeper that’s apparently ‘an awesome spy’. In his opinion, spies are supposed to be sneaky. The constant crackling of the potato chip bag is the opposite of sneaky.

John walks back into the room with Meg hot on his heels. Sam likes Meg a lot more than Ruby. She’s quieter, she’s much less restless, and she hasn’t even implied that Dean is anything less than awesome.

“Your turn,” is all she says to Ruby. It’s what she says every time she comes to pick up Ruby for the blonde’s turn at patrolling while being a Peacekeeper, and it’s the only thing she says for her whole visit.

Why it’s necessary that a Peacekeeper watch over Sam 24/7 he doesn’t know. Why it has to be one out of two female Peacekeepers that obviously don’t like him? Sam doesn’t know the answer to that either. They’re basically acting like Dean, only they’re a lot less fun and a lot less nice.

Sam can’t wait until Dean gets back so Ruby and Meg can leave. Sure, Dean sleeps in way too late and fights too often with John and threatens to rip people’s lungs out whenever they hurt Sam.

He also steals food for Sam and makes up fun stories when Sam’s bored at night. The colorful monsters Dean describes in the nightmare-inducing stories?  _ Terrifying _ . He’s gotten into fights with John before that involved lots of crashing from the other room (Dean insists it was just bumping tables and smashing plates but there were no missing plates the next morning or scratch marks on the floor so Sam doesn’t know about  _ that _ ) when Sam wasn’t able to sleep at night thinking about the people that turned into wolves once a month. Or the people that drink other people’s blood. Honestly, it was great to have a distraction from the terrible monotony of a sheltered Victor’s life in District 5.

The Gamemakers, apparently not very interested in Dean and Jo being reunited anymore now that it’s obvious there’s not going to be any romance going on between them—just Jo slapping Dean in the face again as Sam’s brother tries frantically to scrub Krissy’s blood off of his hands—switches the show’s perspective to the Career group. The group is apparently trying to sleep in the middle of the day. They’re probably worn out from their encounter with the hellhound.

“Sam, lunch,” John calls from the kitchen. Sam tears his gaze from the television as his father raises up a sandwich for him to see. At the sight of the food, his stomach grumbles. He’d forgotten that John hadn’t fed him dinner last night and he’d been too anxious this morning about Dean to eat, but now Sam’s hunger is back in full force. “It’s your favorite—ham and cheese.”

“Why’s Dean so sad about Krissy Chambers?” Sam asks innocently as he slides into the seat next to his father. John hadn’t really made his favorite sandwich—that title is reserved only for peanut butter and banana sandwiches—but ham and cheese isn’t really that bad anyway.

John shrugs and grunts as he takes a bite of his sandwich. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he remarks, “Sometimes your brother makes dumb decisions.”

Sam scowls.

“I’m sure, though,” John continues, “that he’ll snap out of it. He’s probably just tired. You’ve seen how much sleep tributes typically get in the arena.”

“Oh,  _ shit _ ,” Meg says from the television-room. Sam’s eyebrows rise; that’s the first time she’s said something out of hand, and a curse word no less. Just the sound of it makes his blood race; whenever Dean slips up and says bad words John gets really angry. They’re forbidden words, which makes them uber-exciting.

“Excuse me?” John asks, a stern look on his face that normally makes Sam scowl (and makes Dean’s stomach fall into his feet and heart pump faster) because it means punishments that are stupid (and beatings and training and hunger for days). Meg doesn’t react to his intimidating tone. She keeps her eyes on the screen as she replies, “Wendy Igo’s  _ finally _ acting like the psycho we all knew she was from the start.”

“Pardon?”

Sam drops the half-eaten sandwich onto his sandwich and scrambles back into the television room.

“Look,” Meg points out. “Rugaru and Constance are both sleeping but she’s awake and pulling out one of her knives. There was just an announcement that there can be two Victors this year but only if they’re from the same District. It must have set her off because Peter Sweeney’s dead and Rugaru and Constance are from the same District.”

“There was an announcement?” John repeats.

“A rule change,” Meg explains.

John echoes those words faintly but Sam doesn’t hear him. He’s too busy watching with morbid fascination the District 3 girl draw closer to Rugaru’s sleeping form. He’d barely heard Meg talking and certainly hadn’t processed her words.

Sam draws closer to watch and before he knows it, Meg’s grabbed him. One hand clenches around each arm in a vise-like grip that digs into Sam’s flesh.

“Ow! Hey! What the heck are you doing?” Sam cries as she jerks him back. Why isn’t John doing anything to help him?

The Peacekeeper slaps her hand over his eyes with enough force for it to sting. “Why’d you think we were here?” she asks sensibly. “Your father doesn’t want you to watch the more gruesome deaths.”

Sam stomps on the Peacekeeper’s foot and she lets him go, but she doesn’t flinch or hiss or do anything that would make him believe he was the one that forced her to let him go. And, sure enough, when Sam looks at the screen, Constance is shouting and swinging her spiked club at Wendy Igo, who’s fleeing the two District 2 tributes. Rugaru lays on the ground. When the camera zooms in, Sam can hear the boy choking and gurgling as blood spreads from around his head. Wendy had slit his throat in his sleep.

It’s not actually unheard of, especially in the Career groups later in the Games, but it’s always made Sam’s skin crawl when listening to people choke to death on their own blood. He looks away until the sounds stop on the screen and are replaced with the sound of panting breaths. Wendy Igo is the sole focus of the Games now.

She darts from building to building, opening each door and stepping inside with knives drawn. Obviously she’s taking her hunting for non-Career tributes to a whole new level now that she’s eliminated from the alliance. She wrenches open one more door and steps inside and belatedly, Sam recognizes the interior of the room she’s stepped into. It was the room Dean found refuge in after the Bloodbath. It’s also the room he left his flameshooter in.

The rope he’d attached to the flamethrower and the door’s handle squeezes, shutting the door behind her sharply. Flames shoot out of the little box immediately. The rope, which had been soaked in gasoline, lights from the falling sparks, and the fire quickly travels down the rope to the door’s handle. The door’s handle and door were soaked in gasoline and so was the wooden floor of the room.

The fire spreads in seconds. She never lasted a chance.

Just as the cannon goes off signaling her death, Ellen bursts into the house. Somehow she flings her arms around John’s neck, despite being much shorter than him, and cries out, “Our babies are both coming home.”

Sam squints and cocks his head. “What?”

Meg sighs and rolls her eyes.


	18. Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter. Please review and let me know what you think. That always makes my day!

Dean grits his teeth as Jo’s fingers, none too gentle, probe at his burnt stomach, cut forearm, and the various bruises he’d earned from the earthquake and falling rocks. Cameras could be on them right now, seeing as how they’re the ‘star-crossed lovers’, or at least primed to switch to them the second they start to do anything remotely loving. Ergo, he can’t show weakness. It’ll put off sponsors.

“I lost my backpack,” he says in a low undertone just in the case of nearby tributes.

Jo’s eyes squint and her fingers spasm for a brief second. Dean recognizes the telltale signs of her trying to control her temper and is grateful for the self-control. He’s barely keeping it together as it is.

At the end of the day, Jo doesn’t have any family apart from her mother. Sure, she’s close to the Winchesters, but she’s got no idea what it feels like to actually have blood relatives she’s supposed to be responsible for. Her whole life, Ellen or John or Dean has looked after her. She’s never had the responsibility for someone and the self-inflicted guilt Dean’s feeling right now whenever something happens to that person. He’d barely known Krissy but she’d been as old as Sam and had a mole under her left eye. She’d seemed smart, maybe even as smart as Sam.

And now she’s dead.

So Jo’s not really as fussed about Krissy’s death as she could be. Sure, she  _ feels _ for the kid. But she’s not angry with herself and projecting her little brother onto the corpse at the same time, which is a nasty combination.

“How?” she eventually asks.

Dean shrugs. “Earthquake.”

Jo’s eyebrows lift and she looks significantly less angry after that.

Dean looks around furtively. They’d chosen an outcropping of rocks—basically a cave—to shelter under as they recuperated for the time being. It’s not the best shelter, and not so far away from Vam and Krissy’s bodies to keep Dean from hearing the hovercraft vehicles pick them up. He’d tensed both with grief and the forbidden fantasy that had entered his mind, of sneaking onto one such vehicle to escape. It’s never been done before and he knows that it would be a death sentence but what does it matter? The arena is a death sentence. The reaping is a death sentence.

John’s continued insistence on Dean putting Sam in front of him, always and forever, no matter what, is a death sentence.

Dean’s been dead for years. He’s been dead ever since he was four years old.

This is just the first time that he truly, absolutely  _ feels _ dead inside.

His head hits the rock behind him as he groans, low and tense, at the burning sensation produced by Jo spreading balm on his infected shoulder. Jo’s lips press against his, tense and thin and cold, and he doesn’t know if she’s trying to comfort him, herself, or just plain appease the Capitol.

He just doesn’t know. He doesn’t… he doesn’t know  _ anything _ .

After all, corpses don’t need to be educated.

* * *

Dean’s in a house he barely remembers.

It’s the one he lived in for four years, only retained in his memory by trauma and the one picture he has of his mother—Mary and Dean, sleeping together in his bed after he’d worn her out. He’d been an enthusiastic child, Dean knows, and he vaguely wonders where that enthusiasm has gone.

Everything around him is fuzzy. What he focuses on is completely clear, but it still spins slightly.

Dean can recognize a dream of a memory brought on by utmost exhaustion, but he can’t figure out how, exactly, to wake himself up. He’s had this dream before, too, but he can’t quite remember how it ends. Not now. He can only remember how it begins and the middle part that leaves a hollow pit in his stomach both from the dread of what’s coming and the dread of waking up.

So he keeps walking.

Dean passes by John sleeping in the green armchair in front of the old television. He fell asleep in front of the television often, Dean can remember that much. Besides, he’s read every entry in Mary’s journal (the journal he’d hidden away so only he could read it during the years he didn’t talk, and it was the only act of disobedience John ever permitted) and she’d documented their little family’s habits extensively.

The John sleeping in the chair is as old as he is now, but his face is more relaxed than Dean’s ever seen. He doesn’t clutch at his journal, a bottle, or a weapon as he sleeps. His head lolls to the side and he snores, unaware of the tragedy that’s about to befall his family.

Dean knows it’s wrong, that John wasn’t asleep when it happened and it wasn't even at night when it happened, but the funny thing about dreams is that those facts don’t really seem important right now.

There is a rail on the stairs that Dean grips. He walks up the stairs one at a time, legs suddenly shorter than he remembers, and he has to crane his neck to try to make out the pictures he know used to hang above the stairs. They’re too far away and all blurry, distorted, filled with colors Dean’s almost positive would never show up in a family photo. No matter how much he tries, his brain can’t create images of a John that smiled freely or a Dean that was simply a child. He can’t imagine Mary ever being a part of the family, not after so long without her. Her absence is John and Dean’s defining characteristics; take that away and what would stand behind her in the pictures?

It’s too many what-ifs for his brain to comprehend during a dream that he is only barely dozing through at best.

He gives up and transfers his gaze to the top of the stairs, where a single light that illuminates the cream-colored hallway flickers slightly—an omen of the coming catastrophe—and no one had even noticed. Not that night.

Only in hindsight, because hindsight is always 20/20.

Then suddenly Dean’s at the top of the stairs even though he could have sworn he was only five steps up. He stares down the hallway. There are two rooms on his right and one room on his left.

The hallway stretches out to be miles long but Dean doesn’t find that unusual for some reason. He turns to the first room he reaches, which also happens to be the only one on the left side of the hallway. The door opens without Dean ever touching the handle and he’s suddenly inside the room.

The walls of the room are a dark grey-blue. A bed rests in the center of the room adorned with fluffy white blankets that look entirely too much like clouds. It contrasts with the shadows in the corners and the rapidly- darkening paint.

Dean frowns and looks at the walls, because paint isn’t supposed to darken. When he touches the wall, it’s burning hot and his fingers come back black with ash. The room is slowly smoldering.

The room pulls away from him as it crumbles into ash that blows away into the wind and suddenly Dean’s back in the cream-colored hallway, only able to stare through the doorway as every piece of furniture in the room blackens and crumbles.

The door slams shut.

The hallway isn't miles long anymore. It’s barely four feet long and there isn’t a window at the end of it nor are the stairs behind Dean anymore. There are only two ways out of the hallway: two white doors side by side in front of him. There are no markers on either but somehow Dean knows which door leads to which person’s room.

He reaches for the door that hides what used to be his safe haven. Back when he had a mother and a father and slept in his own room. Back when he threw a ball and wrestled with his father and thought about teaching Sammy the same things. Back when his mother was a constant and he didn’t know what the Games were, and nor did he care. Back when Dean wasn’t petrified of Sam turning into another person hardened to the Games or, God forbid, one of the psychos that looks forward to the Games.

Or, at least, that’s how he imagines he used to be. Dean can’t imagine himself as anything other than dead.

Apparently not even his subconscious can imagine that, though, because he’s denied entrance to an escape.

The handle of Dean’s door glows with heat as he touches it and he snatches his hand back with a hiss. It doesn’t hurt—dreams can’t hurt, can they?—but the heat reminds Dean of pain and that’s enough.

A woman’s scream breaks the silence of Dean’s dream and he yanks open the door to    
Sam’s room. The handle doesn’t burn, but the room inside is filled with fire. Mary is hanging from the ceiling by a rope, slowly spinning as her nightgown catches fire. When she faces Dean, her mouth contorts and she screams, “Get up, Dean! Get up now! Run!”

Then John’s looming over Dean, much taller than he remembers him, and he’s shoving a blanketed bundle into Dean’s arms.

“Daddy!” Dean cries instinctively, even though this isn’t the John that he was allowed to call Daddy. He hasn’t been able to call John anything other than ‘sir’ ever since then. The word rolls smoothly off his tongue and Dean wishes yet again he could be a child.

“Take your brother outside as fast as you can!” John orders. “Don’t look back. Now, Dean! Go!”

Dean turns and runs right into a crowd of Peacekeepers and then suddenly he’s in a white room, alone, shivering and cold, as the only door to the windowless room shuts with the sound of a cannon.

Someone’s shouting from down the hallway. Someone’s shouting his name. Someone’s hand is on his shoulder. Someone’s—

“Dean, come on, wake up!”

Dean’s head falls and jerks back upwards as he wakes. The sky is still dark, so he’d not napped through the whole night, but that’s to be expected when he’s having nightmares about the last time he ever saw his mother alive. He’s cold all over. Dean shudders, wishing again for the sleeping bag he’d lost, but Jo doesn’t look to be suffering from the cold.

“You were having a nightmare,” Jo says softly. She squats before him, her hair out of a ponytail. It’s too dirty to be curled prettily the way she likes. As of now, her hair barely holds stringy waves; her curls are gentle to begin with and days of no showering will do that.

“Oh.” Dean tries to control his breathing and he nods as his stomach growls, but he knows that there is no food for him now. “Sorry.”

Jo rocks back and forth a little bit on her heels as she bites her lip. Finally she offers hesitantly, “Want to talk about it?”

Jo isn’t really the type of person to hug and share feelings with. Hell, Dean isn’t either. He tries to be, for Sam’s sake, to make sure he’s a better man than Dean and John will ever be, but he’s never been good at it.

Dean actually considers it. If he doesn’t say it now, chances are he’ll never say it again (though what it is that Dean wants to say he’s not sure). Even without Jo as a potential competitor, there are still way too many tributes for him to confidently say that he’ll survive. The only reason he’s not freaking out right now is because Dean knows he’ll be dying so Sam can live.

He suspects it’s the same reason why Jo is offering; in their last few days together she’s making an effort to be supportive. He appreciates it.

But they’re still being monitored. They’re in desperate need of food. And they haven’t been playing ‘lovers’ nearly as much as they should be.

So he nods. Jo’s surprise is clear on her face, but it quickly clears when Dean says quietly, very aware of all of Haven’s eyes on them, “It was about losing you.”

Even if he was dreaming about that, there’s no way he would willingly admit to that and Jo knows it, so she can tell he’s lying. Playing the lovers angle would be so much harder if they didn’t know each other, but close relationships between two people that aren’t related are so often misinterpreted into romantic ones that even if they aren’t kissing, Dean knows they’re fooling the whole country. It’s just a good thing nobody had ever listened to him whenever he insisted that he thought of Jo like a sister. Then it had annoyed him—both others thinking they’re privy to his personal life and the impossibility of friendships of any kind being platonic, it would seem—but it’s just as well now. It’s saving his and Jo’s life now.

“You’re not going to lose me,” Jo insists. “Not after that announcement, remember? We can both go home together.” She presses cool lips to his forehead. Maybe they just aren’t that cold. Maybe it’s because Dean’s head feels so warm. He must have a fever.

“You have a fever,” Jo says, frowning.

Dean shakes his head. He can’t be sick. Not in the arena.

“You do,” Jo insists. “I don’t have any medicine for sickness.”

“I’ll be fine,” Dean tells her—tells himself too, sternly. He’s not allowed to be sick. Maybe if he insists it hard enough his body will heed him.

“It must be because of the cut, or at least partly because of it,” Jo muses. She pulls up Dean’s sleeve to see the cut, courtesy of Wendy Igo. “Or the cold nights, malnutrition—”

Dean shuts her up the only way he knows how: with a hand over her mouth. “I’m not sick,” he insists. “Let’s get back to sleep, all right? I’ll be fine in the morning.”

_ I’ll never be fine _ , he recognizes internally, and almost looks forward to falling asleep. And, after that, nothing, when one of the tributes finally offs him. Sam will be fine and John won’t be able to hurt him anymore and Dean won’t be hungry and tired all the time.

_ No, that’s just the fever talking, _ Dean commands himself. Sam wouldn’t be fine, not until John is far away from him, and if Sam doesn’t have John or Dean, who would he have? Dean can’t leave Sam. Who is he without Sam?

He holds one arm out for Jo to curl up under for the rest of the night and dozes off almost the moment his eyes close.

More memories sink their claws into him and drag him into their depths.

* * *

Castiel can’t deny how odd he finds it to see Jo and Dean exchanging kisses on the screen. Maybe it’s just because he knows that it is an act. He’d like to think he’d be able to see the  _ wrongness _ of the situation even if he didn’t know, but that’s simply his hubris.

At least he’s able to recognize that much.

Kevin Tran sits next to Gabriel today, but he sends furtive, anxious glances back at Castiel so often his jaw grinds. The boy obviously has no experience at keeping secrets, much less secrets of the magnitude that have been entrusted to him. His anxiety is going to kill him, and probably Castiel as well. And then everyone else connected to Kevin. And Castiel. Until the chain reaction caused by one nervous boy will result in thousands of casualties.

Castiel may be newer to the organization Kevin is involved in, but he has much more experience in deceit and trickery. Years of practice, of mastering the art of lies, of being a good soldier, and it can all be destroyed by one shaggy boy with a brilliant mind, bouncing knee, and wandering eyes.

Years of practice that somehow can’t stop Castiel’s eyebrows from creasing whenever he looks up at Dean and Jo cuddling together as they sleep. He wonders why seeing them acting like that inspires such a visceral reaction in himself.

* * *

Peacekeepers accepting poached animals in District 12. John Winchester’s ‘secret’ meetings. The stolen weapons from the Career districts. Mockingjays parroting insults about the Capitol. Drawings on buildings of flaming swords. The Peacekeepers in District 5. The riot in District 11 after their girl tribute’s death.

And above all, Dean Winchester’s knack for escaping the jaws of certain death. Surely it’s a skill his father had taught him, along with that annoying stubborn nature and unhealthy devotion to family.

All signs of Haven’s waning power. All signs of Dean Winchester’s growing influence.

All the more reason for him, Joanna Harvelle, and everyone in their families to die—most importantly, Samuel Winchester. Those with influence cannot be allowed to live in Haven, not when said influence is even remotely as strong as the Capitol’s. And the influence Samuel Winchester has on his brother, who has enormous influence as the most betted on tribute this year, is immeasurable.

By far, he and Joanna Harvelle are the hardest to control. There is no way they can be allowed to be Victors.

Naomi still regrets the announcement Asmodeus had made, but the Capitol’s clamoring has been unanimous for a chance for the star-crossed lovers to have a happy ending. Once they’re both dead they’ll be remembered as a wondrous story. It’s harder for citizens to think of living people as stories and legends, though.

_ Them dying could spark unrest among Capitol citizens, however… _

“Ma’am?”

President Naomi doesn’t stop drumming her fingers on her desk as she calls out, “Come in!”

“The Districts sent over the transcripts,” Naomi’s personal assistant, Duma, says while pushing herself into the office. “I saw to it that more microphones and auditory recording devices were sent back.”

“Perfect,” Naomi says with relish. Duma’s a great assistant. With dark hair she’s streaked with white and bright white lipstick, she blends in with the Capitol populace while not taking the ornamentations  _ too _ seriously. She’s also masterful at anticipating what Naomi will have her do next. She’s singlehandedly reduced the amount of work Naomi has to do by half.

The assistant drops the box onto her desk and respectfully backs out of the room. Naomi makes quick work of the packaging and pulls out twenty-four small hard drives that she need only plug into her computer. At the moment she’s only focused on one.

The hard drive is grey and as large as Naomi’s pinky finger. Attached to it is a sticky tag that reads ‘D5M—D. Winchester’.

The president plugs the hard drive in and turns the volume up on her computer.

The audio file starts out with thirty seconds of footsteps and breathing. Naomi waits, though; she is nothing if not patient, and finally a sound that must be the door opening is so loud that she flinches. There are multiple thuds and the sound of someone crying.  _ Samuel Winchester _ .

“You gave us quite a scare there.” John Winchester. Naomi scowls. “I thought for a moment you wouldn’t volunteer.”

“Of course,” Dean Winchester says after a second. His voice is tired and heavy and Naomi grins. This right here is something she can capitalize on. Weariness caused by a father’s strict, even cruel parenting? If by any chance Dean Winchester does survive the arena, this is something she can use.

There is rustling and paper crinkling. Naomi continues to insist that her technicians create cameras to put in the rooms, but so far they have not been able to create technology that is small enough to go unnoticed by some of the more…  _ paranoid _ tributes and their visitors. The following dialogue is confusing but would be obvious if she could just  _ see _ what’s going on.

John admits he knows something and then mentions his meetings. Naomi draws back, eyebrows crinkling. Is he… open with his sons about his under-the-table plans? Surely even such a negligent father such as himself wouldn’t be so careless as to give his sons information that they could be killed for knowing.

“It’s a warning,” Dean Winchester says. So he  _ does _ know. Then he adds, “Either way, one of your children is going to pay the price,” with such venom in his voice that Naomi laughs. Oh,  _ yes _ , she likes this family dynamic. Dean Winchester is not a fan of his father’s secret activities.

Samuel asks his brother to promise something Dean will never be able to guarantee, and stupidly, Dean promises. Then Dean chastises his father again for trying to rebel against the omniscient Capitol and Naomi grins wickedly.

Dean Winchester does have a lot of influence. He’s not as strong as the Capitol, not as strong as Naomi, but perhaps it would be useful to have him on her side. It would be an awful waste of potential to kill him now that Naomi knows how much he resents his father, how much he’d sacrifice for his brother…

_ He’s a sixteen year old boy, _ a voice in the back of her mind whispers.  _ Easy to manipulate. Easy to use. There’s no need for senseless violence when your enemy is so powerful and yet so vulnerable. _

Naomi unplugs the hard drive. She’ll get back to the rest of it later, but for now the beginnings of a plan are beginning to stir in her mind and she doesn’t want to forget one bit.

After all, why douse a sword’s flame when one can wrest it from its owner’s grasp and use it against them?


	19. Puce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. We are getting closer and closer to the end of this story (only three chapters left after this!!!) I am really nervous and I really need to keep writing the sequel lol. Anyways, enjoy!

Jo is surprised to wake up in the morning.

She is every day.

Too many things can happen overnight: other tributes can find them and kill them in their sleep, muttations could attack, or there could be a disaster that kills them. She’s seen too many people die in innumerable ways on the television to be under any illusions that she's not in danger every single second. Every single breath.

It’s a miracle she’s survived this long, considering the odds. They must be in her favor at least a little. Maybe the public likes her and Dean’s love story too much for the Gamemakers to kill them off directly.

She can only hope.

For a moment Jo stays still, trying to appreciate the fact that she’s survived this long. Even though it’s been terrifying and her stomach is cramping from the deficit of proper nutrition, she’s got Dean. She’s got a chance. She can go home with Dean, and honestly? Dean’s the most terrifying person to think about facing in the Games. He doesn’t even realize how his face is normally scowling and thunderous. He doesn’t realize how much deeper his voice is than most other men his age—and older!—and how much taller he is than most people. He doesn’t realize how intimidating he is. He doesn’t realize how easy his emotions are to read when his brother is mentioned. How easy it is for everyone to see that he won’t hesitate to kill to get back to his brother.

With her at his side, there’s no way they’re going to die.

Jo can’t help it. She should be alert and scared of any sound outside the cave she’d practically dragged Dean to last night. She should get up immediately.

She just opens her eyes to the sight of the lightening sky through a small hole in the rocks and stares. Last night Dean had glared up at the hole and muttered that sleeping under it would make it easier for the other tributes to kill them in their sleep. Jo had decided to trust on the rock’s natural camouflage and remain as silent as possible. He was too heavy for Jo to move on her own, anyway, and showed no inclination towards moving himself. She doubts his sprained ankle helped his motivation. Hopefully the crude bandaging she’d tried with sticks and fabric last night will help it heal.

Plus, it offers a great view of the night sky. Much as she might hate the Gamemakers, they sure don’t forget details. The constellations on the fake sky looked as real as she’d ever seen them. In District 5, they’re less bright because of all the artificial lights. In the arena they’re enough to light up the darkness, and so beautiful. She can’t wait for Dean to see them.

After a few moments, the urge to relieve herself drifts to the forefront of her mind and Jo cracks her neck, finally resolving herself to waking up. She and Dean have never been morning people, but sleeping in isn’t really an option in the Games, now is it?

“Dean?” Jo whispers, sitting up a little bit. The arm he’d wrapped around her shoulder falls to the ground with a small thud, but he doesn’t stir. Jo frowns and pokes Dean’s cheek. “Dean? Come on, get up, we need to check the traps I set last night.”

No movement. Not even a twitch of the eyelids. Though it’s highly improbable, Jo’s first thought is that he died overnight. Her throat closes up and she swallows painfully before checking for Dean’s pulse.

He has one, but his skin is extremely hot. When Jo puts her hand on his forehead, he’s burning up. It’s the second most feared killer of the Games apart from the Careers: fever.

Jo slaps him across the face, which thankfully elicits a reaction in him. Dean stirs and cranes his neck for a second. “Sammy?”

“Dean, it’s me,” Jo whispers. “Jo.”

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean mumbles. “Did my job. Protected you.”

And then his head falls back to the ground.

This is… so not good.

But Dean can’t get better without food, medicine, water… all things that Jo doesn’t have right now. She can imagine the audiences back home already mourning the lovers, placing bets… she can imagine President Naomi in a ridiculously ornate, spotless white office gloating over her victory. Right now, they’re as good as dead.

But Jo can’t focus on that. She has to be strong for Dean.

In her backpack is the half-used bottle of healing cream she’d gotten as a sponsor gift. She peels back the strip of fabric Dean had used to bandage the cut on his forearm and winces when it tears off some of the congealed blood and scabs with it. The wound is puffy and the skin around it is pink. It’s hot to the touch, but that might just be because of Dean’s fever. If she’s lucky. Only a drop of blood wells up and Jo dabs that away with her sleeve before smearing more cream on the cut. She has no idea how effective the cream is, or if it can even heal infection, but she’s got to hope.

She then smears most of the remaining cream on his stomach and the various cuts that she can spot. Jo almost wishes she could share some of Dean’s injuries; she looks spotless compared to him. Just like how he’d braved the Bloodbath to get weapons while she ran and how he faced the Careers while she escaped with Krissy, he’s been protecting her from getting hurt. And look where it’s gotten him now. Delirious with fever and infection, lying on a hard stone floor. And she’s fine, probably has been eating better than him, and was able to run away from danger whenever it appeared.

All of it leaves a sick feeling in her stomach, but Jo’s not completely sure if it’s guilt or worry about Dean.

“Don’t die while I’m gone,” Jo whispers, placing a quick kiss on Dean’s forehead, and then she gets up. She took care of Krissy when Dean was luring the Careers away. She can take care of Dean now, too.

Probably. Hopefully. As long as she doesn’t get sick too. Then again, Krissy had been perfectly healthy when Jo had been looking after her, and she’d still died, but whatever.

Jo creeps out of the sort-of-cave quietly, shielding her eyes with her hand and holding her breath as she listens for any sort of sound that’s out of place. If there’s even a hint of danger, she’ll fly back into the cave and snap Dean out of his fever herself. Or she’ll just take the gun and shoot any intruders.

Absently, Jo’s hand reaches into her boot and takes out her father’s knife. She runs her fingers over the engraving on the blade before starting to twist it around her fingers. It’s a nervous habit she’s been unsuccessful at breaking, a nervous habit that she knows makes Dean anxious. He’s not here to be anxious about her handling a sharp weapon now, though, so she doesn’t even try to hide it.

Jo keeps her eyes on the ground, mindful of moving through the forest softly. Years of sneaking around District 5 after curfew to break rules has helped her refine the art of moving almost silently. Dean was never as good at her at being stealthy.

Is. Dean  _ isn’t  _ as good as her at being stealthy. Not  _ was _ . He’s fine. They’re going to be able to sneak around District 5 after curfew when all this is over. Dean isn’t something stuck in the past. He’s someone living, breathing, right now, a fixture in Jo’s future, and an integral part of her past. Jo doesn’t even think she can imagine a world without Dean. He’s been a part of her life for as long as she can remember.

The first trap she’d set yields a fat rabbit. The second trap had broken overnight—either a result of Jo’s lack of resources or an animal that was too big to be caught in it had broken it. The third hadn’t been tripped.

A low rumbling sound reaches Jo’s ears, accompanied by faint trembling of the earth. She braces herself and listens. The unmistakable sound of more buildings crashing to the ground fills her ears, but there are no cannons. Only after all the rumbling has stopped does she venture to the treeline. There is only one section of the buildings left, or at least Jo thinks. It certainly seems like those buildings could all be taken out by one earthquake.

Hopefully Sif Terr, Constance, or Ava was in that avalanche. It would provide some drama to feed the lecherous Capitol viewers. And maybe a cannon hasn’t sounded yet because one of them got pinned but they’re not quite dead yet.

Viewers would certainly love watching a tribute bleed to death, impaled by a slab of concrete, or starve whilst pinned to the ground by a rock.

Jo takes the rabbit back cheerfully, only to realize at the mouth of the cave that she doesn’t have any matches, and Dean had lost his backpack. She doesn’t have any way to start a fire. Rubbing two sticks together never yielded her successful results.

Jo looks up at the sky and whispers, “Matches,” hoping that someone will grant her wish. There has to be at least one wealthy Capitol citizen who’s willing to buy the star-crossed lovers some matches, right?

A low groan from inside the cave interrupts her staring plaintively at the sky, and Jo drops the rabbit in her haste to tend to Dean. She falls onto her knees next to his prone body and shakes his good shoulder. “Dean? Are you awake? How do you feel?”

“‘M dying,” Dean mumbles back.

Jo shakes her head. “No, you’re not.”

“‘M burning, Mom.” Dean opens bleary eyes. It’s clear he doesn’t really see Jo. “They’re burning me like they burned you.”

Jo’s face floods with color and she hopes that the cameras didn’t pick up on his remark. She presses the back of her hand to his forehead. He still feels hot.

“Got you, Sammy,” Dean slurs out. “Always… always got you.”

Jo wonders if he’s been mumbling this whole time. If he has, then she shouldn’t have left. A tribute could easily have heard and killed him and she wouldn’t have even known.

A small, tinkling sound interrupts Jo’s racing thoughts. She’s heard this tune before. Someone answered her plea! Jo scrambles out of the cave to where a silver cylinder is drifting to the ground. It’s silver parachute sets it gently down right in front of Jo, right next to the rabbit. Jo falls onto the gift fervently. Inside is a small box of silver matches. There isn’t more than five, which means she can’t waste any.

This also means that she’s got support. As the Games drag on, sponsor gifts become more expensive. Silver matches? And five of them? Worth a sack of grain in District 5. “Thank you,” Jo whispers. “Thank you.”

* * *

“Sword,” Charlie sings. She’s sitting in a bathtub. Her hair is smoking. She’s wearing the all-black outfit Dean had worn in the Opening Ceremony. “You’re on fire.”

Dean wants to tell her that she’s the one on fire. Her hair is red, too red, and it looks like flames and he’d hated it the moment he’d seen her. Now it’s smoking and it’s going to take Charlie just like it took Mom and almost took Sam and took Dad and turned him into John or Sir. The fire’s already taken his right ankle and flames are licking at his pant legs. They don’t worry him.

Charlie raises a teacup to her lips and takes a sip. Dean copies her movements. He hadn’t had a teacup in his hands moments earlier but now it makes perfect sense that he would have one. So he has one.

The tea inside is too hot and thick and Dean spits it out. He looks up at Charlie, who’s smiling at him, all teeth on display. All teeth dyed red. Dean looks down at the cup. It’s made of white porcelain, perfectly crafted and delicate. The white makes the blood inside look black.

“We’re unforgettable, Sword,” Charlie continues. “Eternal. Invincible.”

Dean can’t help but feel like there’s something he should remember. Something about how he met Charlie, or why she would be saying that to him. Something about why his arm hurts and why his fists are clenched. He’s nervous, but he doesn’t know why.

The cup shatters in his grip and the blood splatters all over Dean’s shoes.

“What a mess,” Mom says.

Dean whirls around.

His mother stands in front of him, a heavy necklace around her neck almost hidden by blonde curls. She’s wearing a delicate white dress. It had been splashed with the blood just like Dean, all on her stomach like she’d been stabbed. She grins at Dean. “It’s okay, honey.”

Dean blinks. Slowly.

“We all make messes,” she continues. “But you should shower. I’ll wash your clothes before they stain. Follow me, Dean.” She turns and takes a step towards their old house. Right off a cliff.

“No!” Dean lunges after her, but Mom’s screams are cut short. Dean peers down into the canyon between the cliff and the house. His mother is hanging from the heavy necklace around her neck in the canyon.

Everything explodes into flames.

“Say something!”

Dean jolts back. He would have fallen off the chair he’s sitting in, but his hands have been tied to the edges. Mrs. Holstack, his nasty teacher from fifth grade, screams into his face to speak. Her hair, like Charlie’s, smolders but the woman doesn’t seem to notice her shirt slowly blackening where it touches the strands of hair.

“Answer me!” Mrs. Holstack bellows in John’s voice. “Are you dumb, Winchester? What’s two plus two? Come on! You can’t possibly be this retarded!”

Dean wants to tell her that two plus two is four, but his lips have been glued shut. He can’t write the answer down because his hands are tied.

Mrs. Holstack slams her hands on his desk, her face purple with rage. “What’s the answer?”

I don’t know, Dean wants to shout back.

“How are you going to save Sam if you’re dead?”

Mrs. Holstack pushes Dean right out of the chair.

Dean falls back on his back. He’s staring at a white ceiling.

“Come on, Dean, say goodnight to your brother,” Dad says from the doorway. Dean stands up. A crib sits in the middle of the room. It’s the only piece of furniture not coated in blood.

Dean takes a step towards the crib. And another. And another. His hands wrap around the sturdy wood and he stares into Sam’s wide eyes. The baby smiles, all gums and no teeth, and he gurgles happily. Dean smiles back.

The floor goes up in flames.

“Dean, take your brother and go!” John yells from the doorway.

“I can’t!” Dean yells back.

“Run! Now!”

“I’ll burn my feet!”

“Take your brother—”

“Get up!”

Water splashes Dean’s face and he jerks up.

Jo crouches next to him, her face tight with anxiety. “Dean? You with me?”

Dean swallows. This is a weird dream to be having. Why would his subconscious want him to be dreaming about the present?

Jo sighs with relief. “I’ve got a rabbit all cooked up. You ready to eat?”

Dean frowns and lifts one hand to shield his eyes. A few beams of sunlight illuminate the cave from a small hole in the ceiling. He remembers struggling here last night. As if his ankle was waiting for him to remember, it chooses that exact moment to flare with pain when he shifts slightly and Dean freezes so as not to aggravate it more.

This isn’t a dream.

“Are you still feverish?” Jo asks.

“What?”

“You’ve been running a fever,” she says. “Muttering a lot. You thought I was…” she swallows and looks away.

“What?”

“Never mind. Just…” She tries to hand him parts of a rabbit wrapped in leaves. “Eat. You need your strength.”

Dean frowns and shifts. He can’t help but feel like something is off. Something is missing. Something he’s had since the Games.

His hand goes to his neck. Miraculously, the amulet Sam gave him is still there, after an earthquake, firebomb attack, and countless squabbles with tributes. That’s not it. He checks for the gun in his pocket and then the knife in his boot. He’s got all of that, so what could he be missing?

He’s not in pain right now. Dean ignores the offered food and lifts up his shirt to inspect the burns on his stomach. The skin there is pink but not scabbed or oozing.

“I used up the last of the cream,” Jo says by explanation. “Hopefully your fever will go down as your wounds heal.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Dean mumbles. He takes the offered food. “What if you get hurt later?”

Jo tilts her head and squints. “You needed it now.”

Dean doesn’t understand her reasoning, but he’s too tired to argue. He eats silently along with Jo, pretending like he doesn’t notice her watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“We’re not in good shape,” Jo says finally. “As far as weapons go, we’ve got the gun and, like, two knives. I set up some traps but we don’t know how many animals these woods are stocked with so we shouldn’t rely too much on them. And as far as I can tell, there are only three tributes left apart from us.”

Dean’s jaw drops. “What? How?”

“Wendy Igo’s dead. Don’t know who killed her. Sif Terr is still out there, as well as Constance Welsh. Rugaru’s dead, too. Apart from us, that only leaves Ava Wilson.”

Dean gnaws on the thigh of the rabbit, thinking. Ava Wilson: the girl who started to sob once her name was called and didn’t stop. How much of a threat can she really pose? And Sif Terr. Dean honestly hadn’t gotten much of a read on her. She’d probably been smart and disappeared into the woods during the Games while everyone else killed each other. He certainly hasn’t heard anything about her.

Constance will be a problem. Her spiked club can take someone out in one swing. She also has the build of a powerful runner. Dean’s fast but not terribly so, and Jo has speed but not endurance. Besides, if she manages to get back to the Cornucopia, there’s no telling what she’ll be able to do with the assortment of weapons.

He swallows and wiggles his fingers, then his toes. He doesn’t feel too weak, thank goodness, but he still feels a little shaky and a headache persists behind his eyes.

A sudden noise outside their cave makes Dean freeze.

“Hello?” someone calls. They cough. “Is anyone there? I need help!”


	20. Stelliferous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, y'all. Please don't kill me.  
On the other hand, we're getting closer and closer to the end! Thank you all for your support!

Jo puts her hand on her hip and scowls. Dean ignores her.

“I still think it’s a bad idea,” she whispers loudly—just loud enough that Ava Wilson will be able to hear her, but quiet enough to not make it seem like she’s trying to make the girl hear her. It’s a thin line to walk, but by God Jo’s mastered it. School must have taught her something after all.

The girl they’re discussing is squatting by the small fire Jo had used to cook the rabbit. With a few well-placed twigs and fanning breaths (flinching away from the flames when the sticks cracked and sent sparks up into the air), Dean had managed to revive the fire (hating the warmth but also loving it) while Jo went out to check the traps. Ava had sat down and shook while Dean fixed the fire, though the sun is barely setting and not even he is cold, even after shaking in a fever for the better part of a day.

Dean wants to ask her what happened to Dae Mon and Mary Worthington, but he suspects he won’t get a straight answer.

“Come on, Jo,” Dean argues back, keeping his voice at the same volume as Jo’s. “Does she really look like she can do anything to us right now?”

He hadn’t thought that they would be so lucky as to have a tribute wander right into their clutches. He needs to be able to sell the role that he feels bad for her. At the moment he’s not particularly confident in his skills, so much so that trying to kill Ava Wilson now could alert her too soon and have her turn on them. He needs her to be lulled into a fake sense of calm and sleep. After that… well.

Dean’s getting back to Sam, and he’s taking Jo with him. Ava should just be glad she found them instead of Constance. They’ll at least give her a quick, painless death.

Too bad he can’t tell Jo his plans. Ava keeps sneaking quick glances at them and any whispering would alert her. Dean still doesn’t know how she killed Dae Mon and Mary Worthington. He can’t risk her having an ace up her sleeve that he won’t see coming.

“Jo,” Dean says firmly, “I want you to go out and check the traps again. See if you’ve caught any poughkeepsies.”

Jo’s eyebrows shoot sky-high. Technically speaking, poughkeepsie is their code for when they need to run. Hopefully Jo will be able to tell that Dean’s planning something and not simply telling her to run.

“And then come back,” Dean adds, a seemingly unnecessary comment to Ava and an explanation to Jo.

Slowly, Jo nods. “All right.” She turns and treks into the woods. Just before she disappears behind a tree, Dean sees her begin to flip her father’s knife. He hopes Sif Terr or Constance won’t be waiting for her out there, but he also can’t run the risk of Ava running off. She’s too easy a target. She’s just sitting next to the fire, shivering.

Dean turns to Ava. Holding his hands out to demonstrate that he’s unarmed, he approaches her, limping, and keeps his eyes fixed on the hand she keeps in her pocket. “What happened?” He hopes the limp will make him more approachable. Too bad he’s not even faking that. Though Jo  _ had _ done a good job making a brace for his ankle.

Ava snorts. “The Games happened.”

Dean can’t help but internally agree with that. Out loud, he keeps his face neutral and asks, “Are you injured or something? Why’d you come to us for help?”

“I’m sick,” she says simply, pushing her black hair out of her eyes. “I figured I’d either get help or die. At this point I don’t care one way or the other.”

Dean cocks his head and looks at her. He can’t ever fathom giving up like that. He’d rather face the whole group of Careers alone than surrender. John always told him that surrendering is for the weak. Ava meets his searching gaze head-on.

Her eyes are hazel, just like Sam’s. And as the sun sets, as the trees cast shadows on the ground, those eyes are thrown into sharp relief from the rest of her shadowed face.

Dean looks at the ground, clearing his throat. “What are you sick with?”

“Infection,” she responds. “The Bloodbath. I barely got out. After that I’ve just been hiding in the forest. Haven’t come out even once.”

Now  _ that _ is a lie.

Still, Dean keeps his tone light as he asks, “Haven’t seen any other tributes?”

“Apart from Wraith Williams, who was the one to get me, not a one.”

_ Lie. Why? _

“How’d you survive?”

“Berries and dew.”

Dean leans back on his arms when his face starts to get too hot from the fire. Over the fire he can only make out Ava’s scraggly hair and hazel eyes. Hazel eyes. Sam’s eyes. “Do you want me to do your hair?” he gasps out without even thinking about it.

“Excuse me?”

“Your hair,” Dean repeats. “I can braid it, if you want.”

Ava touches her hair self-consciously. “It looks that bad?”

“It’s just… never mind,” Dean says. “It was dumb. It’s just, my sister taught me how to braid, so…”

“I never thought it would be a skill I would need,” Ava says, a half-laugh. “Um… sure, I guess.” Her hand goes out of her pocket for the first time and Dean finches, but it’s empty.

_ Mission accomplished: make her feel safe. Next mission: kill her. _

But she’s not sleeping just yet, so Dean scoots over behind the girl, the girl that had cried when she’d known she would be a tribute, the girl that’s lying about what she’s been doing in a way that only confirms that she’d been the one to kill those other tributes. The girl with hazel eyes who might have a little brother. He could shoot her in the back of the head right now. It would take care of her, take one more threat out of the arena.

But what is she going to do?

When Dean concentrates, he sticks his tongue out of his mouth a little bit. He searches the ground for a sturdy piece of grass to tie around the ends of Ava’s hair and starts to twist the strands together into a neat braid.

When Jo was younger, she would always braid her hair. When kids at school tugged her hair out of the braids, Dean would fix them. Eventually Jo stopped braiding her hair to discourage the kids at school from pulling on it, but the skill’s apparently stuck with Dean even after all these years.

When Jo emerges from the treeline, Dean’s just tying the braid off. Jo’s lips tighten into a bloodless gash and she kicks at the dirt while approaching the fire, a squirrel clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

“One of the traps broke,” she says curtly. “Tomorrow you should check them out. I’m sure you’ll be able to improve upon them.”

Dean nods, his hands falling away from Ava’s hair. He feels guilty but isn’t sure why he would be feeling that way. “You’ll have to tell me where they are.” No way is he going off with Jo into the woods and letting Ava stay here unsupervised. She could take all their stuff or worse, run off and leave them wanting for an easy target. “Tomorrow.” The sun is already going down, no cannons have sounded at all today that he’s heard, and he’s getting antsy. Unless something big is going down elsewhere, their peace won’t last for much longer.

“Remember when I used to braid your hair?” Dean teases Jo, who rolls her eyes at him and starts to skin the squirrel. “Whenever someone tugged your braids out, I was your knight with nimble fingers.” He winks, too, to placate the Capitol watchers who are surely out of their minds with the need to be sufficiently entertained 24/7. This sort of entertainment is vastly preferable to the Bloodbath.

“Please,” Jo snorts. “You were the one to ruin my hair nine times out of ten.”

“Only because I much prefer your hair down,” Dean teases. He’s acting out a character in a play, in another world where he would be flirting with Jo for real instead of tense, worried about Sam, unable to think of anything other than family and survival. Only problem is that Sam is the actor in the family, not Dean. Sam is the everything in the family. Dean is nothing.

Love lets you down. Love is a hindrance. Love is a breakable bond.

Family… family lasts forever.

Jo pretends to act flustered and looks down at the squirrel. It’s hardly big enough to feed herself, let alone the three tributes. But she’d never paid as much attention during their survival lessons as Dean had, because she hadn’t idolized John. She’d never even considered the possibility she’d be picked for the Games.

Victor children aren’t supposed to be reaped. It’s not  _ fair _ .

Dean blinks away sudden tears ferociously, rubbing at his temple in an effort to relieve the pressure behind his eyes. He obviously hasn’t slept well at all if he’s on the brink of tears after thinking about fairness, of all things, when it’s very clear that Fate has decided from the very start not to deal him a fair hand.

_ You weak, boy? _

_ No, sir. _

Jo only realizes how small the squirrel is after she’s finished cooking it. “Um…” she says, blinking, as if it had been much bigger earlier.

“It’s fine,” Dean says quickly. “I’m not hungry, anyway.”

His stomach growls and Jo gives him The Look, but Ava is already nodding and reaching for the food. Jo has no choice but to hand it over. They can’t arouse suspicion. Not until Jo knows what’s going on. And Dean’s fingers still shake the tiniest bit when he lifts his hands, his head still pounds.

Once Ava is dead, the Gamemakers will create more catastrophes to drive the remaining tributes together. Now, though, there’s two groups of tributes sitting side-by-side.

Presumably the audience is watching their every move, waiting for someone to attack. Dean knows—he just  _ knows _ —that Ava’s not telling the truth. Ergo, she’s dangerous. And surely the audience knows what happened to Dae Mon and Mary Worthington. They also know that Jo and Dean are focused on going home together. The tension must be unbearable.

Jo settles in next to Dean and hands him a leg. This way both tributes will go hungry, but at least Dean will be  _ less _ hungry.

“Look at the sky,” she says softly.

Dean obeys; it’s much easier to be a soldier than to be a free thinker. It’s why John both loves and hates him; he’s the good, loyal soldier that will keep Sam safe, but he’s also dumber than his brother will ever be. Sam’s always been the perfect, golden child. He’ll always be the favorite.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Jo asks.

Revulsion climbs up Dean’s throat and renders him mute. The stars in the sky aren’t real. They were created by the Gamemakers as a cruel mockery of the outside world. In the Districts, one can’t make out the stars due to all the artificial lighting. In the arena, though, to fool the audience and Careers into loving the Games, nature is beautiful. It’s a beautiful little cage each tribute finds themselves in. As if they’re safe to enjoy the beauty.

Thankfully, Jo takes his silence as that of him being awestruck rather than disgusted. Her hand slides into his and she puts her head onto his shoulder. “I’ll take first,” Dean whispers. Jo nods. For a little while longer, she stays in that position. Both their bodies curve in to the others’, seeking out warmth and affection.

Dean’s never slept before without Sam’s familiar, bony body next to his. He’s still not sure how he’s managed to do it in the arena these past—Dean frowns. How many days has it been? He’s lost count. They’ve all blended together in streams of senseless violence.

Ava sits across them, the fire illuminating her features with an orange glow. She doesn’t show signs of fatigue, despite having been recently ‘sick’. Hopefully she’ll fall asleep as the night drags on so Dean can slit her throat. It’s better not to see it coming, he thinks. He’ll give her that much mercy.

He wishes he could give her more.

Nonetheless, she is not the female tribute from his District, so she’s in his way. Surely she’s also noticed how Jo is sleeping and Dean is not. If she asks, he can say it’s to keep watch from the other two unaccounted-for tributes, but she can’t be too dumb if she knows to lie to him and how to have survived this long. Surely she can realize that just a bit of it is them not trusting her.

The night drags on. Mockingjays trill occasionally from the treetops as the little campfire dies down, taking with it the only source of heat the three tributes had. Jo starts to toss more in her sleep. She’s not used to sleeping in the cold. Dean doesn’t like it either; it makes his sleep restlessly as well. At least the cold keeps him awake as he and Ava pretend not to study each other out of the corner of their eyes.

At last, when Dean’s yawned three times in as many minutes (he estimates) and the moon is at its highest in the sky, he nudges Jo to wake her. She comes to instantly. “Your turn,” he mumbles.

Lying down, Dean tries to find a comfortable way to sleep. The ground has absorbed the cold and it’s much harder than the bed he sleeps in at home. Every animal in the bushes sounds like the footsteps of Constance, every rustle of branches is the soft sound of her unsheathing a dagger.

But no danger befalls the group of murderers, and Dean falls into a fretful sleep not deep enough for dreaming.

It feels like five minutes when the first rays of sunlight hit his eyelids. Dean’s awake instantly, though his eyes are sticky from sleep and heavy; it takes a splash of water in the face to wake him up completely. That, and a bright flash of pain from his ankle when he forgets and tries to put all his weight on it. Jo helps him retie the makeshift splint, but it’s nowhere close to being healed. Won’t be for a while.

“She didn’t sleep the whole night,” Jo murmurs in Dean’s ear.

Ava is definitely not to be trusted.

“Can you be left alone with her while I check the traps?” he replies in an equally soft voice. Maybe if they wait her out—lull her into that sense of safety, wait until she can’t resist sleep’s call anymore—it’ll be easier.

“Of course,” Jo scoffs. “What will she do? Did you see her reaping video?”

Privately, Dean doesn’t agree, but he can’t find a way to voice his concerns without offending Jo. “Just… be careful,” he warns.

“I’ve got my knife, remember?” Jo says with a haughty flip of her hair. “She won’t be able to get that away from me, not even if I’m dead.”

“All right, I’m going.” Dean presses a kiss to the top of Jo’s head, regardless of the way she smells. He smells filthy too. Bathing isn’t the best use of time in the arena. “And when I come back, I’m braiding your hair too,” he adds. “If we don’t comb it out soon, birds will come to roost in it.”

Jo shoves him. “First trap is thirty-seven paces in a straight line from this fire. Second trap, the one that’s broken, I put right by the river by a nightlock bush. The river is to our right. You’ll be able to find it. And the third trap is forty-six paces behind us, then three paces to the left.”

“Thirty-seven paces straight, nightlock bush by the river, forty-six back and three to the left,” Dean repeats. He presses another kiss to her forehead. “Be back in a bit.”

Jo catches his hand as he turns to go and stands on her tiptoes to press their lips together in a chaste kiss. “Gotta fool an entire Capitol,” she murmurs against his lips and Dean hums in agreement.

“Going to check the traps,” he says stupidly to Ava once they’ve parted. The ravenette girl nods and looks at the ground.

The first trap Dean almost steps in, but yanks his foot up just in time. He’s saved himself from being caught, but at what expense? He looks like an idiot as he overbalances and falls. Dean groans some inappropriate words—words that, if he caught Sam using them, he’d use soap to wash out his little brother’s mouth—and stands up. It hasn’t caught anything yet, probably because it’s a little more obvious to shorter animals. Gingerly Dean arranges it and steps back, admiring his handiwork. Providing there’s animals in the trees, there should be something caught if he checks back later tonight or, at the latest, tomorrow.

“River to the right,” Dean whispers and turns in that direction. He could use a drink right about now, and maybe a quick dunk—the days keep getting warmer, and the nights keep getting colder. The extremes, he knows, are meant to weed out the weaker tributes. The sick ones.

The thought almost makes him shiver.

There is only one nightlock bush by the river. A small animal carcass lies at its roots. The corpse must be enough to ward away other hungry animals. In the sunlight, the berries look ripe and full, the leaves a deep, inviting green. The river gurgles happily to Dean’s left as he walks down the riverbed to the poisonous plants.

Indeed, there is a broken trap to the right of the bush. What draws Dean’s curiosity, though, is the trampled grass next to the trap. Whoever had been here had mangled the trap to a point where it couldn’t be fixed. It couldn’t have been Jo. It might have been Ava, if she had been watching her before making her presence known. But what would be her motivation for destroying the only way she can get food?

Dean follows the tracks. He gets two steps before he sees the feet.

Sif Terr is lying in the grass, writhing. Her fingers are stained purple and foam dribbles from her mouth.

She’d eaten the nightlock.

It’s too late for her.

Dean grimaces. “I’m sorry.” He truly is. If there wasn’t a Capitol, everyone who had died in the Games would still be alive. They were just  _ kids _ . They’re all just  _ kids _ . Krissy was a kid. Dean’s still a kid. Jo’s still a kid.

The words are just matches held against Dean’s heart, but they’re not enough to catch. The wind douses their warmth.

As Sif stills, a cannon sounds. There was nothing Dean could have done anyway, but that doesn’t mean it’s still not terrible to see someone’s last seconds full of pain.

He turns away from the body and heads back to the makeshift camp. Maybe Ava will have started to nap, thinking that Jo’s the weaker of the pair, or that since only one of her enemies is at camp she’s safer. Better to get the final showdown with Constance over with. No doubt she’s gorging herself to the luxuries of the Cornucopia, as no one is left to challenge her.

Dean steps over a rock and hears it: the sound of panting breath, sobs, and pounding feet. He looks up and a form is running at him, weaving through the trees.

Dark hair streams from a braid.

Ava comes to a halt when she sees Dean. “I thought you were dead!” she exclaims after a second. “Oh, thank God.”

“What happened?” Dean asks suspiciously. “Why are you chasing after me?”

“I’m not!” Ava wails. “We have to go now—Sif Terr found us! She—she—” her face crumples, but Dean’s not moved. “She killed Jo. That’s what the cannon we just heard was.”

Dean cocks his head, confused. She’s just spouting jibberish. Sif is the one that’s dead, not Jo.

“Did you hear me?” Ava asks, drawing closer and fumbling with something in her pocket. “We have to go, Dean!” She takes a step closer to him. Dean only sees John in the way she holds herself. “She wanted you to have this.” She holds Jo’s knife out to him, the metal splashed with blood. The sight of it makes Dean stagger. His back hits a tree trunk heavily.

Ava holds it out to him blade-first. He can already feel it plunging into his stomach.

_ More like they couldn’t get it off me. I’ll die before anyone takes this from me. You know that. And after that I’ll be buried with this knife. _

“Why did you think I was dead?” Dean asks through numb lips.

“What?”

“Why did you think I was dead, Ava?”

“The cannon, duh,” she says, still wiping at her streaming eyes. “Dean, I think she followed me, we need to go—”

“You said the cannon was Jo.”

He’s got to hand it to Ava; she’s got quick reflexes. She lunges, Jo’s knife in her hands, but Dean rolls away before she can make it. She’d wasted too much time trying to drag Dean along with her, or maybe biding her time, putting him in shock, in order to get a shot off. She had one chance and she lost it. And Jo’s not even dead yet, Dean’s brain screams at him, there hasn’t been a second cannon.

He just needs to kill Ava and be done with it.

She turns, slashing with the knife as she goes, and Dean grabs her wrist as she overextends herself. The knife falls from her grasp easily and Ava gasps. Real tears start to form in her eyes.

“What did you do to Jo?” Dean asks softly.

Ava clenches her teeth and headbutts him right in the nose. They both reel back, Dean clutching his nose as blood starts to fall and swearing when the pain scorches through his face. His eyes start to water and he splits blood out of his mouth. Ava had used the momentary distraction to lunge for the knife again, but Dean stomps on her outstretched wrist so hard he heard bones crack.

Ava screams. Dean tries not to at the pain of putting so much pressure on his ankle.

“You get one more chance at a painless death,” Dean says softly. Why had he prolonged this? Why had he thought he couldn’t take this weak girl down? Her brains, her manipulations, her lies—none of those are a match for his strength.

It’s why John trains him. He’s the good soldier.

“She’s  _ dead _ ,” Ava spits.

Dean kneels down and wrenches her middle finger back so hard it breaks. She howls. “You asked for it,” he says lightly, a shrug thrown into the mix, and picks up the knife she’d so desperately needed to kill him. The knife she’d had to have injured Jo to get.

He doesn’t need it to kill her. He puts it on the ground in front of her as he puts his knee on her other hand. He’s pinning her to the ground. He’s won.

And then he puts his hands on both sides of her face, almost a lover’s caress if his nose wasn’t already shedding blood and if she wasn’t sobbing uncontrollably beneath him, if one of her fingers wasn’t broken and if something inside Dean didn’t want to stab her someplace important and let her starve in the forest.

He wrenches her neck to the side the same way he’d done to Cole. The sobbing stops. A cannon sounds.

“Jo!” Dean screams, scooping up her knife and stumbling back towards the camp. He doesn’t care if Constance hears it. Doesn’t care if John hears it, doesn’t care if Sam hears it, doesn’t care if the damned President hears it. He  _ promised _ . He  _ promised _ he’d get her home safe. “Jo, please tell me you’re okay!”

She’s sitting against the rock side of where they’d slept. Her eyes focus on his and Dean nearly sobs with relief.

“I thought you were dead,” he cries, almost dropping her knife. “How’d Ava get past you?”

“ _ Me _ ?” Jo counters. Her face glistens. “I thought  _ you _ were dead! Those two cannons—I didn’t know what was going on!” She coughs and Dean suddenly realizes why she’s sitting at such an awkward angle: a flower is blooming on her shirt.

A red flower.

She’s clutching her stomach, her features tight with pain, but there’s too much blood. That’s what Dean’s mind tells him. His heart screams at him, though, that it’s not too much, that he’s shed that much before and lived, she’s going to be  _ fine _ , she can’t be hurt, not when they’re so close!

“No,” Dean moans. “No, no, no! Bandages!” He screams to the sky. “Please! Anything! Bandages, water, food, gauze—”

But the clear blue expanse remains traitorously clear of life-saving materials.

“Dean—”

“It’s fine, you’re okay,” he says frantically. “Look, I got your knife back, see?” He shows it to her, shows how he’d wiped all the blood off of it so that it looks brand-new, just as brand-new as Dean’s going to make her.

Jo smiles, exposing blood-stained teeth that look too dark against her pallid complexion. Neither of them acknowledge the twin tears that trickle down her face. “Told you you’d bury me with it.” A laugh rips out of her mouth and her chin drops down to her chest. He knows it’s either hysterical, irrational laughter or hysterical crying.

Dean lifts her chin up. Her dark eyes meet his frantic ones. “ _ Don’t _ .” His voice is too sharp. Too deep. He’s John, but if he’s John then he’ll be John for a good reason. “You’re  _ not _ dying. I forbid it. It’s not even that bad, right?”

“Don’t think you’ll have much of a say in the matter,” Jo tries to goad, but there’s too much pain on her face and her teeth are gritted. The blood is slowly covering her hands. Dean tries to press down on her hands to help, but she moans and he rips them away.

“What can I do?” Dean whispers. His ribs are being cracked one by one, his brain is pulsing against his skull and threatening to explode. “Tell me what to do!” He’s a soldier, he’s a soldier, he’s a soldier. Sam would know what to do here. Sam would. But Dean’s useless and Sam’s not and now Jo’s hurt because Dean’s such a fucking idiot he wants to scream.

“It’s not even that bad,” he babbles. “I can patch you up. I’m sure Bobby’s getting sponsors right now to send you supplies and you’ll be good as new, right? I can go and kill Constance and we’ll be okay. We’ll go back just like you said. I promised, right? ‘Cause that’s my job. I have to look out for you, right?” His vision is wavering, distorted with the promise of tears to come. They’re a luxury he’s rarely been able to afford before now.

Jo holds out one feeble hand, almost ignoring the fresh ooze of blood that’s released as she eases off the pressure. “Hold my hand.”

He can’t. He can’t grab onto it, not when it’s practically admitting that Jo’s unsalvageable. “Jo…”

“ _ Dean. _ ” Jo’s voice could be sharp if it wasn’t the same voice Jo had used to scold the boys who pulled on her hair, if it wasn’t the voice she’d spoken in when she’d broken her arm in fifth grade. “You thi—think I want this?” Her voice drops and fresh tears spill from her eyes. “ _ I don’t want to die. _ ”

“You’re not going to,” Dean says automatically.

“I’m terrified,” Jo admits. She’s never said that before.

Dean grabs onto the lifeline that it is, lips trembling as his fingers slide across her slick ones. It’s an emotion he doesn’t have to fake. He loves this girl with all his heart. She’s his almost-little sister, the only other person he loves almost as much as he loves his brother. “Don’t l-leave me,” he sucks in a shuddering breath, “please, Jo.”

“You’re going to win,” Jo says, her eyes shining. “I know you will.”

Dean shakes his head, his lips trembling so bad it’s affecting his chin as well. He can’t even feel the pain in his nose anymore. “I can’t, not without you.” The words are shaky, shakier than hers, and he feels so silly that he’s not even the one that’s hurt and he’s being the bigger baby about it. The trembling has traveled down to his hands now, and blood rains onto the grass as his shaking limbs scatter the blood on Jo’s hands. It’s red, too red, and too dark. There’s too much of it. It’s a river he’s going to drown in.

“I’ll still be with you,” Jo assures him. It’s the flowery nonsense language that some people tried to teach Dean after Mary died. That she’s still with him, that she’s always watching from wherever she went. If she’s really with Dean, then why does he feel so alone? Why doesn’t she try to bring Jo back? “Every night you’ll see me.”

“Of course I will,” Dean scoffs. “Because you’re going to be all right. Here, I can make a bandage—” He moves to take off his shirt but Jo stops him as much as she’s able with a hand to his chest. She leaves a bloody handprint above his heart.

“I love you,” she whispers.

Dean’s eyes scrunch hard as tears begin to fall from his eyes. He’s shaking like a leaf in the breeze. He’s lost a lot of people in his life, but this is one too many.

The drops fall onto their joined hands and wash away thin lines of the blood. Not nearly enough.

“I love you too,” he whispers back. Leans forward. Touches her lips to his again, a gesture filled with sadness and love and tenderness and a good-bye that makes him want to howl. And none of it is privy to any of the lechers in the Capitol. Nobody else can see that he’s breaking into a million pieces.

Well, maybe they can. But they can’t see exactly how much it hurts.

She turns glassy eyes to the sky and Dean wishes that the Gamemakers would make it night again, just so she could see her precious stars one more time.

“I saw them,” she sighs. “The stars were beautiful.”


	21. Staccato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last chapter got a bit of backlash... seems that you guys didn't really appreciate me killing off Jo. Um... my bad? Anyways, take this chapter and go crazy. Please review? They always brighten my day!

Dean’s on fire.

He’s burning, he’s burning, he’s burning, but there’s no sweet relief of turning to ash and letting go. Constance can rot in hell as a Victor but it’ll be just another cage. She’ll never be able to escape.

Is that really what Dean wants?

But  _ Sam, Sam, Sam _ .

He stands up, rage shaking him to his core. There’s so much blood all over him and only some of it is his.

_ They’re calling you the Flaming Sword _ .

Well, good. He’s on fire. Jo lit the last match and it caught and now his ribs are burning and his head is aching and his heart is being burnt to tiny ashes.

And yet it beats.

He hears the cannon but isn’t sure why. It’s just another boom, the telltale thundering of his heart in his ears, but it’s too loud.

He looks around. This isn’t District 5. This isn’t the forest that surrounds it. There’s no Sam.

This isn’t where he belongs. This isn’t where he’s supposed to die.

_ Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. _

Only he can hear it, only he can feel the fluttering it creates just under the skin on his neck, but it’s Constance’s funeral dirge. It’s because he’s the only one who matters that will care just a little that she’s going to die.

But that isn’t going to stop him.

Whatever had been living in his heart has been burnt to ashes. He feels the ashes wash through his veins all the way to his nose where it bleeds out of him. Whatever had been living there, a feathery little something that had been telling Dean he and Jo would be all right, has died. Has gone.

He doesn’t care.

Easier not to wish. Easier not to feel.

“I’m coming home,” Dean says aloud. The words feel foreign on his tongue without another, smaller person next to him saying them. But they’re the truth; at the end of the day he’s either coming home to Sam or to Mary. And it won’t even matter which one.

Because Dean’s never mattered. Not to Sam, not to John, not to anyone that isn’t dead. Not even to Ellen; not after her daughter’s dead and he’s not and she still won’t give up the insane effort he’s begged her not to go after.

_ Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. _

The funeral’s coming for Constance.

Dean can’t feel his ankle almost buckling under his weight with every step. He can’t feel the tender skin of his stomach stretching with every step he takes. He doesn’t feel his arm aching, doesn’t feel every cut he’s gotten so far stinging, doesn’t even feel his hollow stomach begging for food.

The trees pass him by as a blur, or maybe he’s the one passing them by, but everything is too confusing and Dean’s head is pounding. Either way he finds himself on the outskirts of the forest, one hand resting over where the gun is concealed in his pocket, the other fishing inside his boot for the only other weapon he has: the small knife that had stayed with him through the earthquake against all odds. He’d almost kept Jo’s knife, knowing she’d most likely not be buried with it. But her ghost would never be able to forgive him for that.

No doubt Constance will have tons of weapons from the Cornucopia as well as food. She probably won’t have a sprained ankle.

That’s all fine.

_ Sam, Sam, Sam. _

Constance is waiting for him. She’s a bright spot against the brown and grey rubble of the buildings behind her. She’s not wearing the standard uniform every tribute donned when entering the arena. There must have been an extra change of clothes in the Cornucopia. If Dean didn’t know that she wants to kill him, he’d almost call her angelic—every garment is stark white, a beautiful contrast against her dark hair.

His ankle buckles and he stumbles. He doesn’t fall.

_ Sam, Sam, Sam. _

Dean’s almost surprised to see that there are still a few buildings left standing. He’d assumed they’d all be rubble by the last big showdown, but even the Gamemakers couldn’t predict when that would be, he supposes.

Dean could whip out the gun right now and kill her. But he’s too far away, her reflexes are too good, his hands are still shaky, his balance is off—the excuses keep piling up, and there’s no John to force him.

“Just you and me, huh?” Constance calls out.

Dean leans heavily on his left leg. What’s stopping him from sitting down and never getting up?

His brother’s smile, dimples in his cheeks, teeth the same shade as Constance’s clothes. Sam’s shaggy hair always in front of his eyes, his gentle voice, his brother’s gentle hands turning the pages of books. Sam bragging about his grades at school.

Sam. Always Sam.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Joanna,” Constance continues. “If not me, I’d hoped that you’d be the change. That someone, at least, would get a happy ending.”

“Isn’t your happy ending killing me?” Dean counters. He doesn’t miss the spiked club she’s leaning slightly on. She wields it, he knows, like it’s simply an extension of herself.

“My happy ending is going home,” Constance says quietly. “I just want to go home.”

* * *

Naomi looks up at Duma. “Release the hounds,” she commands. Her assistant’s eyes widen and she scurries out of the office, already barking commands at her underlings. Not a second can be spared.

On the screen, Dean Winchester, who’d just snapped a girl’s neck with his bare hands not fifteen minutes ago and watched his teenage love die painfully, tells the only thing standing between him and safety that he’s sorry her partner had died as well. He’d been the one to  _ kill _ Vam Pyre.

This doesn’t make sense, and Naomi  _ hates _ it when things don’t make sense.

Why aren’t the tributes slaughtering each other? Dean looks distraught, and Constance knows her siblings will starve without her.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that, inexplicably, impossibly, the last two tributes aren’t at each other’s throats. They’re sharing condolences. They’re speaking pleasantries.

If the tributes choose to be human, then Naomi will provide the animals.

* * *

“Kill her, Dean!” Sam screams, knotting his hands in his lap. John sits next to him on the couch, tensed as he leans forward, eyes fixed intently on the screen. Neither male dares to blink. They hardly dare to breathe.

Ellen had left the house when Jo died. She’d closed her eyes when Ava attacked her daughter, a single tear slipping down her cheek. The slippery District 10 tribute had taken her daughter by surprise, quick as a flash. Ellen had been expecting it after seeing Ava lock the tributes from District 4 into the same room Bela Talbot was torn to shreds in. She’d been too smart. Jo and Dean had fallen for her tricks and she’d known that it was a death sentence.

Knowing and seeing are two different things.

Sam barely noticed her go, and John barely cared.

_ She’s dead, _ Sam thinks callously,  _ but Dean’s not. _ One part of him whispers  _ Thank God _ and the other part hisses  _ He’s the only one that matters now. _

John hisses out a breath when Dean tells Constance he’s sad Vam is dead. “What are you doing, boy? Just kill her!”

“He’s got his gun!” Sam exclaims. “Why doesn’t he just shoot her?”

_ What if Constance bashes in Dean’s brains with her club, what if Dean trips and falls, what if he gets hurt oh God what if he leaves too oh God it’ll be my fault oh God oh God oh God what if what if what if whatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatif _

* * *

In another life, Bobby thinks, they might have been friends.

He makes eye contact with Rufus Turner, Constance’s mentor, across the room and the two men nod at each other.  _ No hard feelings _ .

Well, not at each other. Towards the Capitol—towards Naomi—then definitely.

In another life, children might be able to grow attached towards each other without wondering during the night if they might be forced to kill each other. In another life, Dean Winchester might not have so many bruises on his wrists and Constance Welsh might not be carrying the guilt of a dead brother on her conscience.

Yeah, Bobby had done his research.

And he despises himself for it, but he’ll continue to work with John Winchester. Some evils are necessary.

The Games aren’t. Not by a long shot. They never were.

In another life, the two children—children!—might be able to throw down the weapons they’re too young to wield and shake hands and probably cry and then go home. They might have been able to be civil towards each other in a schoolyard, not a battlefield.

How did John manage to raise such a good boy, anyway? One willing to die for his brother. How many people volunteer for their siblings nowadays, anyway? He’s one in a million.

How did District 1 produce a girl that can kill without any hint of remorse and then stare down her last enemy and offer him compassion?

How the darkness of Haven managed to produce such bright spots of light, Bobby doesn’t know. What he does know is that the only two humans left out of all of humanity are going to kill each other.

Bobby leans back in his uncomfortably comfortable chair and wishes it were him that was in that arena.

* * *

“I need to protect my brother,” Dean whispers. He doesn’t think Constance will hear it, but he needs to get that off his chest. He’s not here because he wants to kill. He’s not here because he loves Jo. He’s here for Sam and only Sam and even if he’s lying to the whole world, Dean’s never been able to lie to himself. Not really.

He’ll lie to Sam to protect him, he’ll lie to John to protect himself and Sam, he’ll lie to the entire world to protect Jo.

Except… look how well that turned out.

“I really wish it didn’t have to be this way,” Constance informs him.

For a moment Dean’s traitorous heart wants him to tell her that it doesn’t. They could both refuse to fight each other. They could go home together like he and Jo were supposed to. The words are there on his tongue, aching to spill out of his mouth, but he knows people are watching him right now.

The Gamemakers are watching him. Naomi is watching him.

John and Sam are watching him.

So Dean tells her, “No hard feelings.” He brandishes the little knife, hating the pity that flashes across Constance’s face as she compares it between her own spiked club. It’s not fair to lull her into safety like this when Dean’s got a gun ready for her when she comes closer.

Constance takes one hesitant step forward, wary eyes watching Dean’s every move. He stays still, weight still on one leg, waiting for her to get just a little closer.

Another step. She lifts the club higher, gripping it tighter. She’s just three meters away. So close and yet, with Dean’s injured foot, so far.

One more step. Her eyes are narrowed into slits at his lack of resistance. Dean’s seen alley cats fighting before when they bristle their fur at each other and glare. He knows after the glaring comes the screeching and clawing.

For a moment the two Victors stay like that, both waiting for the other to make the first move. Constance isn’t stupid; she knows the posture Dean wears isn’t that of a boy that’s given up. But she’s also a Career. She was raised to prize brute strength over strategy.

Dean sees on her face the hope that he’ll be too slow to dodge her blow. It betrays her, this wild hope, even though she relies so heavily on it, and Dean sees himself in her and Sam in her hope.

Constance swings. Dean ducks.

The force of her swing catches her off balance and she stumbles forward, the muscles in her arms straining and bulging as she hefts the club higher. Dean dives underneath her arms and the force knocks them both over. He moves to stab her in the side with the knife, belatedly realizing that getting close isn't the best strategy when he wants to shoot her, but Constance is quick and slams the non-pointy end of the club into his jaw.

Pain explodes in Dean’s face and he curses. Constance shoves him off and he rolls away, twisting his already twisted ankle in the process. Dean screams through gritted teeth and clutches the knife in his hands so tightly he doesn't think he’ll be able to let it go when this is all over.

Constance jackknifes to her feet and runs at Dean, roaring with anger as she brings the club back up again. Dean rolls as she brings it down and the spikes dig deep into the soft ground. As she struggles to wrench the weapon out again, Dean flings the little knife without thinking. John had taught him how to throw, so of course it reaches its target. Constance screams and wrenches it out of her hip without thinking. A spray of blood follows the tip as it exits.

She turns the eyes of a feral animal onto Dean and he thinks,  _ Yep, definitely no hard feelings here. _

He struggles onto his feet and breaths out a sigh of relief when she flings the knife down and it lands hilt-deep in the soil, quivering from the force she used to throw it.

Careers all act the same way when they’re angry. Dean’s glad he was able to make her so. Now he doesn’t regret watching all those years of past Games.

Constance lunges at him and Dean knocks her in the nose with his fist. It’s not a particularly powerful blow because Dean has to remain stationary so as not to aggravate his ankle. It still manages to swat her out of the air like a fly. As she falls, she shoots out a foot to knock into Dean’s unsteady leg and it folds. He staggers and she uses the distraction to flip herself back up.

Dean just needs her to sit still for the seconds he needs so he can shoot her.

Constance pushes herself up. The two tributes regard each other, both breathing heavily. For a moment their chests rise and fall in tandem. Constance slowly reaches up to wipe the small trail of blood leaking from her nose because of Dean’s blow. Dean tastes blood in his mouth and realizes he must have bit his lip.

Just minutes ago Constance’s clothes had been spotlessly white. Now there are grass and dirt stains all along it as well as a splattering of blood on her chest and a slowly darkening crimson circle on her hip. Her eyes flicker down to the spiked club a little ways to Dean’s right. She’s figured out that she can’t beat him using her fighting skills alone.

Dean falls for the trick. His eyes stray to the weapon too and then she’s wielding a curved knife she’d pulled from God-knows-where and aiming right for his throat. Dean dodges and his hand goes to the gun in his pocket. Before he can pull it out, Constance lunges again and Dean catches her by the wrist, twisting his body away in the process.

The air in Dean’s chest leaves him in a whoosh at the sight of the extremely painful certain death he missed by a hair. The knife would have taken his eyes out, if it hadn’t gone straight through his skull.

Constance lets go of the knife and it falls into her other hand. She doesn’t hesitate before driving it directly through Dean’s right side, with enough force that her shoulder hits Dean’s and the hilt of the blade stops further forward motion.

He doesn’t even feel it. Not until Constance lets go and shoves him.

Dean falls in slow motion, hands unclenching and eyes widening. This doesn’t compute.  _ I was so close to winning. So close. _ And now he’s Krissy and she’s Vam and he’s been impaled. Somehow Dean just  _ knows _ that the tip of the blade is poking out of his back.

He thinks he might hit the ground. Maybe. Or maybe time slows down so much that he’s hovering above the grass for all of eternity.

First his ass, then his back, and finally his head. Three cannons signaling his death.

A strangled gasp falls from his lips as he jostles the in-and-out wound. His hands go instinctively to the source of the pain and he groans as white-hot fire shoots through his side.

Constance moves closer and her hand reaches out. Through the haze of pain making his vision blur and his ears pound, Dean knows she wants to rip the knife out of his body.

He weakly slaps her hand away. Constance shrugs—or Dean thinks she shrugs; everything he can see is wiggling now—and takes a step back. She’s going to wait for him to bleed out.

Dean groans and rolls slightly away from her, one hand clenching his chest with a fist in an attempt to distract himself from the pain.

He rolls again onto his back, screaming behind clenched teeth as the knife moves in his own flesh. Surely there’s an important organ in his side that she’s nicked.

Then Dean shoots Constance right in the thigh.

He’s honestly surprised he managed to hit her at all. His vision is still fuzzy and white. At least his rolling on the ground in pain distracted his opponent long enough for him to draw the gun and cock it.

Constance screams and falls.

When Dean pushes himself up, he feels like he’s being torn apart. With a grimace, he pulls the knife out and drops it. For a moment his head spins and he gags.

_ Sam, Sam, Sam. _

He tears his shirt into strips. As Constance gasps on the ground, seemingly paralyzed by the blinding pain of failure and being shot, Dean wads up the strips and binds them to the two wounds on his side. He’s bleeding way too much. He knows that. He also knows that Constance isn’t going to last much longer than Dean.

_ Instead of the two Victors the Capitol wanted, they’ll get none, _ he thinks gleefully. At least he’s going out spitefully.

Once he’s finished his pitiful attempt at prolonging his own life, Dean turns and stares at Constance. She glares up at him with eyes spilling over with hatred in the form of tears.

He’s got two bullets left. She’s not going anywhere.

It should be so easy.

Dean cocks the gun and points it right at her head. Though it’ll be a painless end, the fighting should have satisfied the Capitol viewers enough. In this, at least, he can remain human.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking, and Constance grits her teeth and nods.

“Don’t wait,” she asks—orders. She’ll not be so shameful as to let her last moments be that of a dying, pleading girl. Dean knows how Careers think. He knows how John thinks. He knows how  _ he _ thinks.

She closes her eyes.

But she’s somebody’s Jo. Or somebody’s Sam.

Dean closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger.

Constance is a hair away from death when a faint howl reaches his ears. Dean’s finger slackens.

Their eyes open at the same time.

“Hellhounds,” Dean breathes. The wound in his side is forgotten. The hole in Constance’s leg is but a mere memory. He extends his hand to her while shoving the gun into his waistband and she takes it without hesitation.

Dying at a hellhound’s claw is bad enough. Leaving someone to be torn to shreds by those mutts? He’d be as bad as Naomi.

They turn and run.

_ hands clenched together, Jo’s hair flying in the wind as she giggles, every step taking them farther away from the scene of their crime _

Every step is fire in Dean’s side and his ankle feels like it’s being hacked at with a rusty knife with every step, but he doesn’t imagine Constance is faring much better. He grips her hand hard enough to hurt and then he grips harder. The pain in his hand distracts him from his side and ankle.

_ Don’t stop, boy. Are you weak? _

_ Yes. _

_ Don’t stop, boy. _

_ I can’t keep going. _

_ Don’t. _

_ I wish I wasn’t. _

“In the Cornucopia!” Constance yells.

Dean takes one look at the squash-shaped building and shakes his head. He doubts that there are enough supplies left in it to build a barrier sturdy enough to keep hellhounds out. Besides, he’s not sure they’d have enough time to build a barrier, judging by how loud the howls are getting. There’s more than one hellhound, he can tell, and they’re gaining on the two injured tributes fast. “We don’t have enough time!”

“We could climb on top!” Constance yells back.

Dean risks a glance behind himself and sort of wishes he didn’t; the sight of four or five hellhounds streaking across the grass field behind him makes his heart stutter.

“Push me up!” Constance orders the moment they reach the smooth metal structure.

“You won’t be able to pull me up,” Dean counters. He’s not sure if she’s being honest or hoping the hellhounds will take care of her problem, but he’s not going to take that chance. His intentions might be good but hers might not be.

Constance glances behind herself, sees the hellhounds drawing closer, and must decide that arguing isn’t worth it. “Go quick.”

Dean stretches for any sort of purchase, but the metal is too smooth. After a moment he feels Constance’s arms around his knees and she lifts him up. Dean pretends that he’s doing something by scrabbling at the metal.

The second he feels like he’s got a good grip, Dean spins around and lies on his stomach, reaching out for Constance. As he struggles to dig his feet into the metal, their fingers scrabble and lock onto the other person’s wrist.

Dean’s eyes meet Constance’s wide ones. Just minutes ago she had looked perfect and now she’s leaking blood, her clothes are filthy, and her hair looks like an unmanageable bush.

He lets out an animalistic growl, struggling to pull the girl up without any good purchase. Her boots slap against the metal like she’s rock climbing, breaths coming out in panicked spurts, and she’s so close. Her other hand grips Dean’s shoulder.

Then Dean realizes the growling isn’t coming from him.

There’s a blur of black that nearly pulls him off the Cornucopia and a scream that’s cut off way too abruptly. Then Dean’s holding a disconnected arm.

He can’t help it—he screams too. Blood drips out of the empty elbow cavity of the arm he’s holding and his fingers spasm, dropping the limb right into the waiting jaws of a hellhound. It disappears with a snap of gleaming white teeth.

Constance’s body lies on the ground, neck snapped cleanly.

Dean stares. And stares. And stares.

That was a dumb decision, because the hellhounds obviously don’t care that he’s the last tribute standing. One with bloodstained teeth leaps for him and Dean jerks himself up, but not before the mutt’s long claws shred through the shirt covering his left shoulder and rake down his skin.

He screams, his vision going white again, and falls backwards. With a horrible feeling of slipping down the other side and knowing just how terrible that would be, Dean forces himself to sit up in the middle of the structure. He lets out a shuddering breath and wills himself not to throw up or pass out even though his head is getting dangerously fuzzy.

The hellhounds on the ground freeze and cock their heads.

One makes direct eye contact with Dean and he knows that this is their leader. There’s a cold intelligence in its dark eyes.

Dean shoots it right between those cold eyes on instinct. His hands shake with the effort of holding the gun up.

Strength is leaking out him, its color a dark red, and the next thing he knows is that he’s slumped on his face, back craned uncomfortably. He barely makes out the sound of mutt paws thumping against the grass. He raises his head and sees through bleary eyes that they’re running away.

The gun slides off the Cornucopia and lands anticlimactically in the grass. Dean’s almost disappointed it didn’t go off and plant the last bullet in his own forehead.

“Congratulations!” Dean hears a too-loud voice exclaim. “District 5’s very own Dean Winchester is the winner of this year’s Hunger Games!”


	22. Irascible

Dean Winchester rose into the arena. He was nothing. He was a boy who’d never live up to his parents’ reputations. He was a boy with bruises on his wrists and his brother in his heart, thinking that his loved ones will make him stronger.

The Flaming Sword is lifted out of the arena. Not a one person in all of Haven doesn’t know his name. He’s bleeding from a hellhound’s claws, he’s got two stab wounds, and his ankle is swollen to the point that it’s unbearable to put the slightest pressure on it. He’s the only person in Haven history to kill a hellhound. He has his brother in his heart and he hates himself for that because of how weak it makes him and how it endangers Sam.

The Flaming Sword keeps mumbling words under his breath that people can’t quite make out so they write it off as the crazy ramblings of a half-dead sixteen-year-old boy.

He may be rambling, he may be half-dead, but he’s not crazy. He’s as aware of his surroundings as he ever is and even more so because he knows that he loves his brother and it will hurt forever because his brother will never know how much. But that’s love, he now knows, because telling him would hurt Sam and the Sword would rather die than Sam get hurt.

Someone touches his ankle and he screams. Someone else pours alcohol right into the wound in his side, saying things like “Barely missed the ascending colon,” and “Need a blood transfusion  _ stat _ !” and “It’s so swollen because it’s broken.”

The Sword lashes out at the person nearest to him and then he feels the prick of a needle in his arm and finally, blessedly, he feels himself drifting away.

He’s not even scared. He’s just  _ tired _ .

* * *

_ “Come on, Dean! Sam’s got to be put down for his nap, and so do you!” Mary calls, smiling gently at her older son. Dean beams at his mom from where he’s playing in the dirt in front of Uncle Bobby’s house. _

_ “But, Mommy, I don’t wanna take a nap!” _

_ “I’ll let you sleep with Sammy, how about that?” Mary asks. “You can protect him in case a monster gets him, all right?” _

_ Little four-year-old Dean puffs out his chest, flattered at the thought that he can protect baby Sammy. “Okay, Mommy.” _

_ Mary holds out one hand for him to grasp once he toddles over and moves it so that he’s gripping onto the side of Sammy’s stroller. The metal is warm from being out in the sun for so long, but Sammy doesn’t seem to mind the heat. _

_ Before the trio can begin walking, Dean pokes at Sammy’s tummy to see the baby squeal. Sammy doesn’t disappoint. His wide smile exposes toothless gums and Dean grins back. _

_ Luckily, Uncle Bobby’s house is only a few empty houses away from the Winchesters’. Unfortunately, with Dean’s short attention span and even shorter legs, it takes a good twenty minutes to walk 100 yards. _

_ “Mommy, is Daddy gonna be home when we get back?” _

_ “No, Dean. Daddy’s still at work.” _

_ “Is Daddy gonna be home after my nap?” _

_ “He might, Dean.” _

_ “Awesome!” Dean exclaims. It’s his new favorite word. He heard some people on TV saying it, and it caught on. Mary didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop, even if he did hear it during a Games commentary. “Can I teach Sammy how to play ball yet, Mommy?” _

_ “I don’t think he’s quite old enough for that, Dean-o.” Mary spares a tired smile at an old Town woman walking by, and she smiles indulgently at the energetic blonde, freckled little boy. There’s not anyone in all of District 5 that doesn’t like Dean. _

_ Dean stops short when he sees the house and Mary pulls him along. He almost falls. “There’s something wrong with the house, Mommy.” _

_ Mary doesn’t hear him. She also doesn’t see what he’s noticed: a steady trickle of smoke leaking from a window with a circular hole. _

_ Dean tugs on her sleeve as the outside of the house starts to turn black. “Mommy?” _

_ “Dean, it’s almost time for your nap. We can’t waste time or Sammy will fall asleep in his stroller.” She stops short. _

_ Dean looks to his right when the hairs on his neck start to stand up. A Peacekeeper stands at the corner of the street, which isn’t unusual. What is unusual is that he’s looking right at the Winchesters, and he’s got his mask off. _

_ Dean first notices the man’s weird golden eyes. After that is the smile on his face. It doesn’t look like a nice smile at all. _

_ “Dean?” Mary suddenly asks, her voice tight. Dean looks up at his mother and sees that she’s staring right at the Peacekeeper too. _

_ “Yes, Mommy?” _

_ “We’re going to go surprise your father at work, okay?” _

_ “Okay, Mommy!” _

_ Dean turns around and follows after his mother amicably, but she’s walking way too fast. “You’re too fast!” he complains. _

_ Their house explodes into flames. Dean tries to turn around but Mary’s hand grips his arm too tight for him to do so. “Don’t look at it,” she commands tersely. “We need to find your father.” _

_ People start to scream around them, which makes Sammy start to cry. _

_ “Shh, it’s okay,” Dean soothes between pants as he tries to keep up with his mother. “It’s okay, Sammy. Look, we’re at Daddy’s work right now!” _

_ A steady stream of people gushes out of the dam, all strong adults looking for the source of the noise. Mary pushes through the crowd. It takes all of Dean’s strength to keep up with her and not get swept away. _

_ He hears John’s voice and jerks his head up. For a moment he can see someone that looks like his father yelling “Mary! Mary!” in the crowd, but then he blinks and someone else is blocking his view. The man, if it even was John, is gone. _

_ Then everyone is gone. Mary, Dean, and a crying Sam all stand in the entrance to the hydroelectric dam. _

_ “Mommy, where’s Daddy?” Dean asks. _

_ “He’ll come,” Mary whispers. She turns. “Dean—” _

_ Dean turns and sees five Peacekeepers standing just behind them. Mary backs away, dragging Dean with her. “Dean,” she says slowly, “I want you to take Sam and run.” _

_ “Mommy—” _

_ “Don’t argue with me!” she snaps. “Go now, Dean!” _

_ But Dean’s feet have been glued to the ground as the Peacekeepers draw ever closer, even when Mary tries to push him into motion. The last Peacekeeper to enter closes and locks the door behind him. _

_ “We just want you, Mary,” Yellow Eyes says. _

_ “Then let my boys go!” _

_ “If we feel like it.” Yellow Eyes licks his lips as he looks at Sam. It makes Dean scared. “Don’t resist, Mary.” _

_ Dean jumps when someone starts to pound on the door. “Mary? Dean?” It’s John. _

_ “Daddy!” Dean screams at the same time Mary leaps into action. She kicks a Peacekeeper in the stomach and he goes sprawling, but two more quickly take his place. Inbetween Mary giving a nasty uppercut to the left one’s jaw and sweeping the feet out from the other, Yellow Eyes grabs Dean by the arm hard enough to hurt. _

_ “Don’t resist,” the Head Peacekeeper orders again, “or we’ll snap your boy’s neck.” _

_ Mary stops short as the masked figures struggle to their feet. They force her onto her knees and she grunts. _

_ Yellow Eyes throws Dean away. When he sits up, tears shining on his cheeks, he sees the Peacekeeper that threw him standing over Sammy’s stroller. Then he looks at the back exit that the Peacekeepers hadn’t bothered to cover. _

_ “Stay away from Sammy!” _

_ “GET UP, DEAN! GET UP NOW! RUN!” Mary bellows. _

_ John breaks down the door. The Peacekeepers turn to face him. Dean sprints to Sam, picks him up out of the stroller, and runs as fast as he can out the back door. _

_ Just as he exits, Dean hesitates and looks back just in time to see Yellow Eyes hit John right in the head with his discipline stick. _

_ Dean turns to continue running but is drawn up short as another tall Peacekeeper blocks his way. _

_ (white walls) _

_ (boom-boom boom boom-boom) _

_ (Don’t hurt him) _

_ (They’re both valuable) _

_ (boom-boom boom boom-boom boom-boom) _

_ (He reacts well to the venom) _

_ (boom-boom boom boom-boom boom boom-boom) _

_ (He’ll have no recollection of this) _

_ (Just tell us what you did with the antidote, Mary) _

_ (boomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboom) _

_ (There’s no way to escape the Capitol) _

_ (Sam has the antidote) _

_ (Let’s wait and see how he reacts) _

_ (There’s no way to escape the Capitol) _

_ (Tell us how to reach District 13) _

_ (Who are the rebels) _

_ (There’s no way to escape the Capitol) _

_ The blood is everywhere, drowning him, he’s choking on it— _

Dean wakes with a great shuddering breath. He’s not drowning in blood anymore. He’s in a spotless white room so well-lit he can't even see the creases between the walls and the furniture inside it.

He sits up, his clothes rustling, and examines himself. There’s an odd space in his chest like a hole. He can’t help but feel like he’s forgotten something important.

A dull ache persists in his side and it takes him a moment to understand why.

Fighting the urge to wince as he remembers the pain of being stabbed, Dean hesitantly rolls out his bad ankle.

He’s fine.

He’s disappointed. He’d gone under thinking he wasn’t going to come up ever again. Yet here he is. His hands are still bloody but none of it is fresh. As far as Dean can tell, all his injuries have been taken care of.

He remembers why he has blood on his hands and something folds inside of him. He teeters between  _ Dean _ and  _ The Flaming Sword _ —so close to losing himself in the madness of grief, so close to floating away from here to a place where Mary and Jo are still alive—and then the door opens.

Dean falls back into himself at the sight of the trenchcoat and he hates Castiel because of it. The sight of those blue eyes folds his heart into tiny pieces and makes his side ache. His ankle twinges with ghost pains.

_ Is this what it’s like, _ Dean wonders,  _ to be a Victor? Ghost pains from injuries expertly healed? The ache of losing more people so fresh I want to scream? _ Because that’s not what Dean signed up for. He signed up to kill people and protect Sam.

Sam’s all he has now. If anything happens to Sam Dean’s not sure he’ll survive.

The Victor tries to say Castiel but his throat gets clogged up and all that comes out is “Cas?” Somehow, it’s perfect.

Cas opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Those blue eyes dart around, searching for something, and Dean pretends he’s looking for Jo. That maybe she survived and Cas hasn’t visited her yet.

That illusion is shattered as another person walks into the room. Still, the Sword can’t rip his eyes away from the traitor. How had he fallen for his tricks when they weren’t even tricks? He had known all along that Castiel is an agent of the Capitol.

President Naomi is beautiful in person, albeit in a cruel sort of way, and it feels like a betrayal to even think that. Her dark red curls are striking against the white background and her eyes, blue like Castiel’s, are just as piercing. She sits down in one of the chairs the Sword had barely been able to see. Castiel hesitates by the doorway, two fingers rubbing the hem of his trenchcoat anxiously, before he settles and turns into a statue. After that initial moment of eye contact, he seems unable to meet the Victor’s gaze again.

“You should know,” the person the Sword hates most in the world says, “you were the one I was rooting for.”

Like that’s supposed to make him feel better.

The newest Victor wants to say a lot. He wants to call her names like a child. He wants to tell her he doesn't give a rat’s ass about her opinion. He wants to tell her to go away because he only sees blood and Jo and Sam when he looks at her and he hates her for it.

The words would be so much effort to say, though. His lips feel sewn shut. He doesn't have the energy to pull out the stitches.

Then Naomi continues to speak and he suddenly finds the strength. “You can have my word that no harm will ever come to your brother in any way if we can come to an agreement.”

In those words he sees the fatal mistake he made in the arena. If he had died Sam would be safe, but now that the president needs leverage over him, Sam will  _ never _ be safe. He hates the strategy even more because he knows it’s a smart move. However, the Sword keeps his voice and eyes steady as he says, “He won’t be reaped, you mean.” There is no point in letting his enemy know that he knows what she’s doing. That he’s smart enough to see through her manipulations.

“Exactly.”

At least Dean knows what he has to do now. Once he’s dead Sam will be in less danger. If the Sword is dead there’s no use in threatening his brother. Then Sam would be used, as he and Dean were this year, as leverage against John.

So John needs to die too.

_ Then _ Sam will be safe. There would be an uproar if both the son of a Victor and the brother of a Victor was chosen for the Games. The Sword just has to wait until Sam turns nineteen.  _ Wait... _

“What about when he turns nineteen?”

The second the words are out of his mouth he’s cursing himself. He’s just giving her ideas.

Naomi smiles. It’s a slow unfurling of the flag she’s forcing him to kneel for.

“Well, the seventy-fifth Hunger Games—the fourth Quarter Quell—will declare that only males and females eighteen through fifty years old can be reaped for the Games. Good publicity, you understand? So now it’s not children that are dying. There’ll be less unrest on our hands.”

She’s smart.

The Sword knows he’s not the brightest, knows even as his mouth opens that he’s forgetting something important, but he speaks anyway. He knows what she’s saying; that she can change the rules in any way so that Sam will always be in danger, and he calls her bluff. “You can’t rig the balls. There are such an assortment of names in them that your threat is practically null.” His voice betrays him, though, and lets everyone know how he’s not exactly certain of that.

Naomi leans forward, extremely fake concern on her face. “Dean, I thought you were smarter than that. The Capitol can do anything. No matter what slip Castiel draws out of the ball, if I tell him to say Sam Winchester, he will say Sam Winchester. Just like how he said Sam Winchester this year.”

_ Who— _

Castiel looks down at the ground.

Angry color rushes up his neck and into his face. The Sword’s fists clench in his lap as he begins to sweat from the rush of heat.

It all comes rushing back to him.

That Castiel is a traitor. That’s not quite true, though. He’s not, never was, and never will be on the districts’ side. He’s no traitor; he’s an enemy.

That Castiel can’t be trusted, no matter how his blue eyes reflect so much white light in this room that they turn white as well. No matter how trustworthy he acts.

That Castiel is working with and for the Capitol. He called Sam and Jo’s names. He killed Jo. He almost killed Dean, too.

Dean looks at Naomi, eyes dull and dead, still with blood literally on his hands. He’s possibly the most dangerous man in Haven at the moment. She’s the most powerful woman in all of Haven.

He looks at Naomi, and she wields the sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it; we're done with Part 1! Thank you all for sticking with me throughout this journey. I appreciate each and every one of my fans and loved receiving your comments, even if I forgot to reply to them. Most of all, thank you to Lansfics7, who has encouraged me throughout this whole journey and will continue to encourage me (hopefully) as I write the sequel. This story would not have been made without her support.  
As of now, I plan to write around 23-24 chapters for the sequel, which will be called The Scars We Can't Hide. I am still in the process of writing it, but once I reach around chapter 16 I plan to start publishing again, with the same schedule (every Monday). I aim to be at that point by May.  
Thank you again for all your support and I can't wait to see you all in May! :)


	23. Update!

Hey guys! Just wanted to let everyone know that the sequel to this story is officially up! It is called The Scars We Can't Hide.

Enjoy!


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